"Emma if the thought of meditating is giving you anxiety, there is something seriously wrong with you," declared my mother as I expressed my disdain for seated practice in anticipation of a Sunday afternoon quiet yoga and meditation workshop. I struggle with nearly every activity that involves rest - resting the mind or resting the body. Sleep is like my worst nightmare.

Still I am a person who believes in balance. A hectic workday ends with calming tea and a good book. Suffering is countered by mindfully choosing to do something we love.  The ups in our lives give way to the downs and over time, life balances. But balance requires mindfulness and intentionality, which I am quite horrible at. When I'm feeling forceful, fiery and feisty, rather than going on a five mile run or talking maniacally, I should purposefully take a bath (obviously, I detest baths), have a quiet night at home (no champagne, no dancefloors) or sit and just be (torture). I am utterly resistant to relaxing and calm activities. For me, they require much effort; but that which elicits resistance and requires great effort is often that which we need the most. What allows us to grow into balance.


Last night after our meditation workshop, I sat in bed realizing it wasn't that bad. I would likely benefit from meditation. Then and there, I committed to meditating everyday - even if just for five minutes. Thinking about a daily seated practice sparked my desire for a daily yoga practice, an idea I've been avoiding committing to for some time. I decided I wanted to really practice arm balances. And eat a diet free of any processed foods. And I want to make absolute certain stairmaster three times a week. And next week I'm going to go to Bikram yoga with my coworker. I will have weekly dates with at least one person I'm developing. I'm going to have a weekly date with my mom. Oh and take my dog on longer walks. I'm committed to working through my relationship by putting calm and peaceful energy towards it rather than freaking out about everything and speaking to only that. Yes, I'm going to be more present when people are talking to me and make eye contact and not look away or pick at my nails, which I am committed to keeping beautiful and making sure I make time for my bi-monthly nail appointments but that means I have to eat out at least one night less than I normally do so I'm committed to cooking more...

My eyes closed and my mind swirled with the many commitments I intend to make around self-improvement, healthful living and elevating my relationships with everyone right down to my dog. Exhausted from so much thinking, I fell asleep.

This morning I woke up naturally, and before I could remember what had happened last night, I folded my yoga mat in half and sat down to meditate. I set my alarm for seven minutes (stretch goal) and closed my eyes. Most of what I thought of had to do with the actual meditation, but just before the alarm went off, I thought "This is enough." Eventually, I will own my daily yoga practice. Always, I aspire to eat free of processed foods save the occasional tortilla chip binge. By packing my calendar every night of the week, my nails and dog and relationships get pushed to the wayside. I even rush through writing on my blog and editing my book. Inside me, is a huge opportunity to slow down.

But the journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step. For now, short morning meditation is plenty and enough.

Emma Dinzebach

I don't really have a resolution, I said late Sunday afternoon in a round robin of 2012 do's and do not's. I mean, I resolute all year long, I said with a teeny tiny better-than-thou. Still on course to lose the remaining 2.5 of my 5 pounds, consciously aware of saying "yes" as opposed to "yeah," taking a few moments to switch into solution rather than complaining in the face of frustration and a religious sunscreen devotee, I'm a walking, talking advertisement for self-improvement. What else can I possibly improve?

Sure there are areas around my outer butt that, however loved and worshiped by my ex-boyfriend, I could once and for all tone to perfection. And I could resolve not to wear black stretchy pants on my days off. I could organize my financial goals with a bit more structure... But I'm a creative purchaser. Without some impulsivity, I'm robbing myself of the simple joy of being me. None of these areas are even forgotten about enough to constitute an actual resolution. Still, I believe in New Year's resolutions. I believe that we are constantly reinventing ourselves, reinspiring ourselves, and revamping the methods by which we achieve our goals.

Now it's a week into 2012, and I have yet to declare my intention. My mom is calling her resolutions "intentions." She is practicing being light and free or something like that. She encouraged me to practice being light and free. I'm always burning the candle at both ends, she says. But light and free sounds horrible to me. I mean, what would anyone write about, create, report if the world was all light and free. Light and free will not be me. So who will I be in the new year? Who will I be to other people?

Or who will I be for other people?

After a few minutes of rare intentional thinking, I decided that in 2012, I will be an all-around better person for other people. I do enough self-absorbed self-analysis - recounting my relationships, detailing my dates, agonizing over the eggs in all my different baskets - that sometimes I forget to take my head out of the sand. Rather than focusing my resolution on my eternal quest to improve moi, this year might I focus on who I can be for everyone else in their journeys? I have the potential to be an instrument of motivation to A. LOT. of people. My strengths lie in winning others over, creating ideas and motivating to action.  My assistant manager recently reminded me that we should use strengths rather than endlessly obsessing over our areas of opportunity. Because our strengths we actually already possess. Duh.

Alas, Resolution 2012: I intend to check in with my friends and family. Actually support them. Use my strengths to motivate and help them achieve their goals. And boost their spirits by letting them know that yes, I realize there are other people on the planet besides 5'3 me, and I appreciate them. Immensely.

Emma Dinzebach

I didn't really get the whole white girl problem joke until today in Whole Foods. Obviously. My ex-boyfriend had part of my Christmas present to give me and I had things I bought for him. Mid-afternoon, he called and said he was in Whole Foods across from my store and asked if I wanted to come over there to swap. I said yes.

Scene:

Me - overpriced rain boots, overpriced rain jacket, very neat hair and eyebrows. Him - trendy glasses, iPod in (which was a odd), designer shoes, jacketless but scarved. Me - rushing in with a bag full of $25 boxers and a hundred dollar hoodie for him. Him - brown paper package tied with a floppy red bow. inside - a sleeve for the iPad he gave me for Christmas. Me - flustered and rushed, stupidly offer to walk him through the produce section. Him - inquires about ingredients in chili, which he intends to make before he goes out of town. Me - hook, line and sinker - where are you going? Him - Tahoe. Me - quiet beside him as we pass the seafood department but glad I'm no longer dating someone averse to seafood and free to cook deep sea culinary delights. Him - straight past seafood to the local, grass-fed meats. Me - suddenly teary. Him - genuinely concerned. Me - I have to go now. (I actually did have to go to back to work.) Him - how much do I owe you? Me - eighty five dollars. Him - I only have hundred dollar bills.

Okay, so this part could have also been a drug dealer problem.

We then tried two different cashiers to break a hundred dollar bill, none of whom had the change. I got huffy and frustrated that these people can't break a hundred dollar bill. What kind of Whole Foods is this? This would never happen that the Georgetown Whole Foods. Several people excused themselves past us in search of Pellegrino, and I became increasingly uncomfortable. He gently urged me to relax, and not knowing what else to do, I again said I had to go. He asked if I want to open my present. No, I didn't want to open my present next to organic all-purpose cleaner. As I declined, I fiddled my umbrella and suddenly my golf-sized umbrella burst opened in the middle of Whole Foods. Oops. My face burned. With his eyes on me, I struggled to quickly close it. He understood about the present but insisted on peaking into the bag containing his luxg lounge clothes, and I said: Just don't wear those two things together. Ever.

As if that was the main concern.



Then suddenly, without thought or preparation, I again said I had to leave and walked out the door without looking back. Normally, I always look back. I like a good melodramatic ending scene, but this time I couldn't bring myself to act it out. I couldn't even muster a "I hope you live into your possibility." And I love that line. All I could do was re-open my umbrella with purpose and without looking both ways, dash across the street. A car shrieked to a halt. The driver shook his head.

Thankfully, I didn't die. I don't want to die like that - near tears, clenching a hundred dollar bill. And I certainly don't want to die wearing rain boots. Because my main concern about death is what I'll be wearing.

Inside my concerned assistant manager asked me how it went. Whatever. I just wanted it to disappear and for a moment felt as bleak as the weather outside. I sat down at my office and complained for a solid ten minutes before I was called outside to monitor a photo shoot for our weekly product notification. When I went back outside, it wasn't raining anymore. It was like an entirely different day. The sky was clear and to the right was a giant, picturesque rainbow.

Get the rainbow in the picture, I said.

Emma Dinzebach

It's only fitting that the day the national turkey was pardoned and the supercommittee again failed to offer us anything close to super, I found political fervor in everyone's favorite holiday sentiment: gratitude.

The absolute bane of my human existence is not actually flocks of pigeons but unsupportive parents. Having four for-the-most-part very supportive parents to whom I am eternally thankful, I absolutely cannot relate to and hardly tolerate inhibiting, dream-squashing parents. I become livid and often quite mouthy. (You're shocked. I know.)

Such was the case listening to my friend and her father discuss her career path over a beer (me champagne) last week. There for moral support disguised, I intended to say very little. As she vibrantly talked about her goals and plans to achieve said goals, I smiled and inserted little encouragements. But every time she took a breathe, her father interjected with a comment like:

"I see your excited, but excitement doesn't pay the bills." AND "Now, you don't talk about this at [her current job] do you? You wouldn't want to lose your job." AND "Maybe if you were nicer to you boss, your boss would be receptive..." AND They got so much worse, I'm embarrassed to even write them.

I get that parents are worried about their children. With unemployment at 9% and something like 16% percent for people under 25, we can be blinded by fear. But when in the history of parenting has worry-based expression ever helped anything? (Except last night when my mom may or may not have saved me from being electrocuted because she was worried shouldn't attempt to unstick the lightbulb with pliers without turning off the electricity.) What happens is that the child (no longer a child) walks away feeling frustrated, unsupported and unvalidated. They abadon their dreams, wake up 35, baby on the way and trapped in their lives. So, they take antidepressants. But they gain weight. Then ten years later, they repeat said cycle on their children - squashing dreams like cockroaches. Resentment builds at at 57, they have a heart attack. Or at 67 they have diabetes. And honestly, that's costing our country a lot of money.

Dream squashers cost the country money. I am sticking to that.

My friend's father continued down this ugly path, and my passion grew. I tried to reign it in. I did. At one point he said something about the economy and the president, and we can all guess how that landed. Roughly. Quite roughly. Maybe I shouldn't have, but I said:

Me: You're a Republican, right?
 
Him: Yes.

Me: So you inherently value personal responsiblity and the freedom of personal choice.

Him: Yes.

Me: And you uphold our constitutional right to the pusuit of happiness.

Him: I uphold all of our constitutional rights.

Me: Right. Our country's founders did so without wealth, networking or social status. From nothing, they contrived our constitutional rights. You of all people then must be a huge proponent of the American Dream.

Him: I am.

Me: So denying someone the right to pursue happiness, in whatever form that may take, is essentially unpatriotic. It's un-American to squash people's dreams.

He looked grumpy. My friend looked scared. I anticipated he would say something about no one being happy waiting in the unemployment office. People who cannot feed their kids because they spent their lives trying to be Mick Jagger don't end up happy. But I wasn't finished. I rarely get a soapbox, and I intended to use it.

Me: There are only two things needed to fulfill your dreams. The first is the absolutely essential inner component of all dream fulfilling. The second helps you achieve your goals faster and more efficiently. The first, verified by thousands of psychological studies and resides in varying levels of human nature, is intrinsic motivation. The second is strategy. Obviously.

Him: Obviously.

Me: So discouraging your daughter from fulfilling her dreams when she clearly has both of the main components of dream-fulfilling - an above average level of intrinsic motivation and intentional strategy, is both  unpatriotic, un-American and the antithesis of fundamental ideals our country was built on.

Remember, dream squashers cost $$$.

He cocked his head slightly and looked at me, unsure how to respond. I saw his rebuttal forming, and for a moment worried that maybe I didn't know at all what I was talking about. Except for intrinsic motivation; that's real. Intrinsic motivation drives single mother's to send children to college. It allows two college kids to take a chance on a chopped salad shop, and my dad to abandon his business for two months to rebuild houses in tornado-torn Joplin, Missouri. Intrinsic motivation keeps my brother at the studio for hours after an 8-hour workday. It pushes us to get back up when we fall. It's that thing inside of you that keeps you going. That you can't name. That picks you back up when the first, second, and third time you go for your dreams you fall short. I was armed with this ammo, but he changed the subject. Wimp.

"Many of life's failures are people who did not realize how close they were to success when they gave up." -Thomas Edison

Later, and in the most inspiring way I could, I told my friend that sometimes parents let worry and doubt drive their interactions with their children. Unfortunately, all that does is place worry and doubt onto the kid. No one needs more worry and doubt. But that's hard to see when you're in the weeds. Then I reminded her that it's two days before Thanksgiving, and she should be grateful she lives in a country (and has a father!) that values personal choice. But with choice comes responsibility.

Choose choice responsibly.

Emma Dinzebach

So I have this friend who, when she was broken up with her boyfriend, accomplished so many things. Really remarkable things. Honestly, the stuff dreams are made of. Then she got a new boyfriend, and out the window went all of the stuff dreams are made of and in came lots of cuddling up to movies but very few subsequent accomplishments.

Upon hearing my boyfriend and I reunited, she heeded: "Emma, do not stop writing. I repeat, do not stop writing. Don't let snuggling get in the way of fulfilling your absolute highest human potential!"

Had she given up? Was she placing all of her unfulfilled human potential into my empty vat? How would I ever fulfill all of this potential? How would I ever fulfill it and still snuggle? Although she had a point - even before children, we can become so wrapped up in the affection of another that we quietly neglect our hopes and dreams.

Sometime yesterday I thought about a fitted tweed jacket with black leather lapels. Maybe holiday tweed with a hint of red. When worn with a dressed down ensemble, the jacket dressed it up and when worn dressed up, it dressed an ensemble down. The back had a very thin line of leather separating the two halves and stopping just before the waistline where it kicked out a little bit like a riding jacket. For hours I scoured the internet looking for this jacket just to find that the jacket, apparently, does not exist. Thus, confirming my age-old suspicion that I should have indeed been a fashion designer. Sigh.

How will a self-proclaimed snuggle addict, with heaps of unfulfilled potential and so many regular-person things to do, arrive at the peak of my potential whilst sharing my world with someone else? I wondered. How do I find the time? But I've been to Landmark; I know "time" is not an excuse. There are people with full-time jobs, three children, ballet lessons, mother with early-onset Alzheimer's, sick cat, oil changes and running a company and producing a documentary film and exercising daily, that do it everyday. Sure those people have assistants and such, but even so they accomplish a lot.

How?

Nope, not multitasking. (Most studies say it actually takes us longer to do do things when we do multiple things at a time.) The key is efficient-tasking. See also: maximum prioritization.

I consider myself an efficiency expert; but sometimes in a snuggle-ridden relationship, I become less efficient and less productive. Mainly because I'm addicted to snuggling. It's very hard to snuggle and do other things. (Siri has indeed helped.) Thus, I have decided the only to way to write on my blog weekly, complete my re-writes and edits, practice yoga, run, walk my dog, hang out with friends, work!, maintain a glowing complexion and snuggle is detailed prioritization, and when possible, killing several birds with a single stone. Which is fabulous, because I hate birds.

So last night, I painted my nails while watching a movie with my boyfriend. (Baby steps people, baby steps.) Little did my boyfriend know that my nail-painting was symbolic of ways to come. No more disorganized, lazy Sunday afternoons. No more skipping yoga. My friend recently ran the Marine Corps Marathon and said one of the hardest parts of training was forcing herself to stay in so she could do her longest weekend runs. There are times that I need to stay in, say "no", get my hot ass home early because I am most productive when I am well-rested and have worked out. Those two essentials are incompatible to staying out until all hours the night, however fun that might be. All of the dancefloors in the world will be ready and waiting for me when I have accomplished my goals.

And then, get up early, which can be hard when you have a snuggle addiction. However, like the dancefloor, all of the snugs in the world will still be there when I have accomplished my goals. If I am committed to some serious prioritization, then I wake up. No excuses. No cutesie stuff. Up. Up. Up. Nothing is done by laying around thinking about it. Everything is done by strategic action.

When I look back on my life, am I going to wish I had fulfilled my artistic potential or stayed in bed longer? As tempting as those snugs might be, no one wishes they slept more. Not. One. Person.

Emma Dinzebach

After the one (miserable) date I went on when I was broken up with my boyfriend, I received a text message from the guy saying "I inadvertently stumbled upon your dilemma." See also: Google stalked you. Not one to encourage potential suitors to read through the cumbersome medley of my many thoughts, I sort of laughed off the text message. Three hours later, I received a slew of angry texts expressing astonishment, horror, and consternation.

"Good luck with the alienating, judgmental, self-absorbed, insecure Dilemma and your myriad of dates with so many unworthy, horrible, idiotic men..."

And that went on for 45 more iPhone lines during which he made a million assessments about me, only two of which were correct: He suspected that I was judging his footwear during our lunch date, which I was. He suspected he wasn't funny enough; and he wasn't even funny at all. Every single thing I have ever written he took personally and internalized, spinning himself into a frantic, crazed state. I felt quite frightened actually, then intrigued that such a strong effect can arise form something I thought so trivial. I'm not sure why it took me so long, but only then did I think that maybe I underestimate the power of my verbosity.

Maybe all of those times that my boyfriend was a little uncomfortable with something I had written weren't a reflection of his lack of support for my artistic outlet but were actually, if slightly, warranted. Perhaps I was artistically repressing myself by insisting that the topic relate to him? However, I truly enjoy writing about relationships and dating. It's funny. If I write about life lessons all the time people will be tired of me. Plus, what if something pertains to him? What if I am writing about a situation and he was there, do I not even mention that? Do I not even mention that I have a boyfriend? The line is both fuzzy and fine and the slope is ever-so-slippery.

Without a boy, what the hell will I write about?

Well, technically, I have plenty of boys yielding years of fodder to trifle to perfection. There are [too] maaaaaaany dates, dudes, duds and such to write until my heart bleeds. Most of whom have absolutely no say in how or what I write. Most of them don't even care. So if a single man wishes to be excluded for the sake of our relationship - because he loves me - I can agree without carrying on about my artistic repression. Especially because, when getting back together, there is just one rule:


Commit to one thing each. His means I veer my public displays of affection away from the internet, sticking to hand-holding and such. Maybe yours is that your boyfriend doesn't email from bed, and his is that you don't get mad when he gets drunk watching football. Yours might be making more time for your friends. His might be spending more quality time together. Whatever. It doesn't matter how complex or how simplistic, make every decision come back to that one thing until you are solid and strong and have a bag full of successes all related to that one thing. Then and only then, can you can choose something different. One thing at a time.

Obviously, I'm having trouble narrowing my things down to one....

Emma Dinzebach

Had I just let what was over actually be over six weeks ago, I could have already emerged from this effing break-up and be dancing, all sweaty, with guys with six pack abs. But instead, I tortured myself refusing to believe that the totally amazing man I am so in love with could not feel the same about me. How can he not see what is possible in our relationship? Why isn't he psyched to live that possibility? My brain cannot understand this. 

I mean, it's me! I am positive. I have style. I am dance floors and dance offs and champagne dance parties around the world. Plus, I'm passionate. I give amazing gifts. Despite my constant need to lose five pounds, I am genetically blessed in that I will never be overweight. Most of the time, I am funny. Always, I am imaginative. I am a great cook. I am mind-blowing in bed.

"Do you think I won't be a good mother?" I asked him.

"What?! No, I think you'll be a great mother," he replied.

While I've had many break ups, I've never broken up with someone when I was still in love with and fully committed to that person. During my previous break-ups, the relationship. was. over. We tried, we learned, and ultimately, we separated feeling aligned on our decision. Post break-up, I followed a strict set of rules that allowed for maximum healing. Break-up processes, while sad, were clean cut. As a result, I was able to stay friendly with my exes. Not this time. 

This time, I did not follow said rules and created a state of misery, which I do not wish on anyone. We stayed so friendly that many days it didn't even feel like we actually broke up. It was sticky, horrible mess that began and ended with me talking incessantly. (Shocking.) Self-defeat piled on self-defeat. Repeat yielded insanity. I said a million concepts and argued a million things. Eventually, he was tired of hearing me talk. I felt like a crazy, shit-covered parrot. And I hate birds.

I always need to lose five pounds. Always. If I lose five pounds, I need to lose five more. If I gain two pounds, I still need to lose five. It doesn't have to make sense to you people; it makes sense to me. Five pounds less, I will be happier, healthier, more fun, more sexy and a much faster runner. Five pounds less, my yoga practice will soar, my dating circle expand and my ass will look amazing. Five pounds less, I will be a free woman. Free at last.

Any evidence to the contrary, I toss aside. So it doesn't matter that I actually dated the most guys when I was nearly seven pounds heavier. It does not matter that I ran my fastest half-marathon and completed my only triathlon with a little more cushin for the pushin. Sure I can think of times that I was blissfully happy with five pounds more of me, and during those times, I still needed to lose five pounds.

Any and all evidence even remotely in support of losing five pounds, I manipulate and internalize so that it fits into the schema I've created about myself. How is this working out for me, you wonder? Well... Last week I walked into my ex-boyfriend's room. In the dark, I saw the trunk where I formerly kept my belongs was filled. It looked like he was storing his linens there. I stood perfectly still. He has replaced me, I thought. It is like I was never even here. My trunk is occupied. His entire life is occupied with things other than me. I am a complete idiot for even being here. I certainly didn't need to eat out again, and I definitely didn't need gelato. Fucking gelato. I need to lose five pounds. If I lost five pounds, I would not be bearing this repeated rejection. I started to cry.

Witnessing me unraveling, he kindly masked his annoyance and told me that it was his clean, unfolded laundry that he just put there to fold.

"Oh," I said. "Like a laundry basket?" I wiped my eyes, touched my stomach, reminded myself to do extra crunches at the gym tomorrow.

"Yes. So get that story you created out of your head."


I attached heaps of meaning to the trunk being full - that he doesn't want me in his life and has occupied it with tons of things to indicate that, that he doesn't want my things there anymore, of course, he doesn't love me. Then I crazily tied it back to my story that I need to lose five pounds. If I lose five pounds, I will be great. If I am great, no one will break up with me. People don't break up with people who are great.

The next day, I ran on the treadmill thinking about those five pounds and what they really mean to me. Five pounds are not hard to lose, especially for a borderline nutrition expert who works for an athletic company. I am purposely not losing the five pounds. Why was I holding onto five pounds?

Why do we hold onto anything? Because we are actually scared of who we would be sans excuses. Um, ourselves. If I lost the five pounds, how would I explain failure and rejection? How would I rationalize drinking wine as my coping mechanism? What would be my excuse? I would have to stop being so hard on myself. Worst of all, I would actually have to be. Without a future motivator rooted so deep within me, I would be forced to realize that my body actually isn't screaming for anything. My body is rested, strong, and fine. The five pounds live in my mind, and I am afraid to be in there without them. I'm afraid to just be me. Being me scares the shit out of me. I am A LOT. My deepest fear actually is that I am powerful beyond measure.

And so, to avert my power, I need to lose five pounds.


Emma Dinzebach

There are not many things in life that a glass of champagne can't cure. I mean, it can't cure tuberculosis, and I wouldn't try it for alcoholism; but a bit of bubbly can sure take the edge off of life's trying times. If I had a genie, I would ask for champagne on command. Then when I saw someone in tears on the metro or a guest bought her first pair of groove pants, I'd pop open champagne. Sadness lifted by bubbles. Spontaneous celebrations galore. Why, we would dance so much more. And be skinny!

Because you know, champagne helps you lose weight.

I could have used a glass of champagne this morning after talking with Jayna's dad about the trial. I could have used a glass of champagne this afternoon when I pitied myself for having to go through a break-up and admitted that this is a shit horrible time. I desperately needed champagne when I opened my gmail and an ad at the top read "Catch Him and Keep Him: 9 Ugly Mistakes Women Make." I needed a damn near bottle of champagne this afternoon when the emotions of the morning, day, week all caught up with me, paralyzing me and rendering me utterly futile. More than anything I wanted to be with the person I love, in his arms. I wanted him to make me laugh with his reassuring words that neither my friends nor my family could provide to comfort me. I had no where to go with my feelings, no where to put them.

During our staff meeting, between tears, I cleared this with my team so I could be present and powerfully deliver our business updates. As we were leaving our meeting, a brilliant and insightful woman approached me and told me she was shocked that I thought I had no where to go with my feelings. Absolutely shocked.

"Why?"

"Because you are a writer, Emma. Just write."

Oh, right.

I am a writer. Not because I have this blog and a lot of people actually read it or because I'm writing a book. I'm not a writer because I wrote about restaurants and fashion, and I'm certainly not a writer because I used to write boring grants. I'm a writer because I always have somewhere to go with my thoughts and emotions. I'm a writer because my authentic self is best expressed in the written word.

Exhausted and ready for bed, I forced my butt down in front of the computer (a glass of champagne to my right) and started to put my thoughts into a place. There are too many to share and, I acknowledge that I've worn out my emotional welcome. Rather than bore everyone to death with my anxious ups and downs and tedious self-reflection, I want to say thank you. Knowing that someone actually reads this provides a purpose for my self-serving dumping ground. You all give me the space, I just have to write it down. For that, I am humbly appreciative.

Emma Dinzebach

Last Friday night.

To be as clear as possible, I approached the situation from the following state of mind: exhausted. Thursday night I got home from a long flight at 12:30 a.m. Then, love-inspired and District-struck (See: Price of (Im)patience - Part 1), I stayed up late detailing a poetic rendition of my nearly-year-long love story - a gift I planned to give my boyfriend on our anniversary. In almost a year, I had never written anything for him. Always intimidated because he is also a wonderful wordsmith, I wanted to get an early start so it was absolutely perfect. I was mentally drained from self-reflection. Combined with a full work day less nap and long run because I gained three pounds while I was away on vacation and was feeling utterly horrible about myself, I was totally and admittedly irritable.

Irritability + Propensity for Impatience = Ugly.

Recently, I promised my boyfriend that I would consciously work on the way I expressed myself when I was upset. Rather than send fiery text messages, I would intentionally and coolly express my emotions. In turn, he would respond with empathy and openness rather than just jumping to his side of the story. (I'm a stand for mutual empathy in a relationship. Non-negotiable.) After not seeing him all week, I thought he would jump at the first opportunity to see me. When he didn't want to see this play I had invited him to, I became upset. Naturally, I wanted him to want to see me ASAP even if it meant going to a play with my mom and aunt. I felt like he had no sense of urgency around seeing me! (Eh, hem: impatience.) Coupled with being annoyed at myself for agreeing to the play when I just got home, going without him made me so mad. Mad at myself. Mad at my boyfriend. Sleep deprived. Sex deprived. On empty. I called him. (No texts.)

I thought I explained my feelings clearly; but his empathic attempt was "I understand" followed by a defense on his part. Here is the communication breakdown. I need real empathy. Like, "Emma, I understand that you are exhausted and upset that we are not seeing each other right away. This is making you very irritable, and I'm reminding you to practice patience because I love you. I assure you that I cannot wait to take of your clothes and kiss you all over as soon as you are finished with that damn play." But I got, "I already told you I understand. You aren't understanding that I had a long week and don't want to go to play with your mom and aunt. It doesn't mean I don't want to see you."

Do you see the distinction?

Well I did not respond very patiently to his incapacity for empathy and certainly gave no empathy to him. I might have decided that he never sacrifices anything for me. If he doesn't want to do something, he is not going to just suck it up and do it for me. But I do that all the time for him... Which made him defensive and angry. Obviously. It was a slippery slope. He said I had been "attacking" him all day, and to be fair I did have a g-chat frustration over our shared calendar and not planning something for our anniversary. Together we became angry and frustrated, and neither of us handled these feelings graciously. Then he said, "I can't do this anymore. I want to break up with you."

Yes, you read that correctly.

Me: "What?"
Him: "I don't want to date you anymore."
Me: "What?"
Him: "I want to break up with you."
Me: "But we love each other. We are in love with each other. I never want to break up with you."
Him: "Well there are two people here. I am not happy."
Me: "You're just going to break up with me, right now.
Him: "I didn't want to have do this over the phone."

To reiterate, two days before my period, three days before my 29th birthday I stood on the balcony of the Kennedy Center about to see an utterly depressing play absolutely exhausted, sex-deprived, tired from hurriedly fitting work into half hour increments between self-exploration the prior week, borderline fat, and my boyfriend who I want to marry broke up with me.

FUCK. FUCK. FUCK.

"It's just a crime of passion."

"You guys love each other!"

"But you're so happy together?"

"He will come to his senses."

I knew he would not. He is a Scorpio, and you know how Scorpio's are when they make decisions. No matter the contradicting evidence, they stick to their guns. Later he claimed he had been thinking about this for a while and was giving me "a chance" all summer. I had no idea I was being monitored; and worse, I had been quite proud of my progression thus far. Most people succeed in changing in a healthy space. My state of mind was not all together healthy until early August. My friend and employee was killed in the Spring. I was promoted at a new store, and over half of the team quit. Week after week I received two weeks notices. Then my old store re-opened, and I dealt with loss and sadness that I was not going back to a team that I loved in a store where I first grew into a leader. On my very best behavior for my new team, I was admittedly more impatient with my boyfriend, family and friends. Being closest to him, he certainly received the brunt of my frustrations. Through my various stages of grief and adjustment, he was loving and kind. That is a lot to deal with for a couple who has been together seven months, and he did a beautiful job.

In retrospect, he handled everything so much better than I did.



That takes us to the beginning of July - right around the time we openly talked about staying together because we love each other and truly working on our communication. That is a short amount of time to change in light of a lot of shit in your life. Plus, I'm not the fastest changer. Never have been. I was the kid who learned everything the hard way. I have to push everything to the final, absolute limit before I learn.

This was the final limit. "We can talk tomorrow. I know you have some things at my apartment you need to come get," he said.

I don't remember the play. Just that I cried.

Emma Dinzebach

My friend Jayne once told me that normally she isn't usually a fan personal blogs as they are mainly self-serving; but she likes mine because it's self-deprecating and puts a deeper spin on commonplace thoughts. Mostly, I maintain that. However, the following is self-serving. I release my emotions though writing, and currently, I have a lot of emotions to release. Still, an anal-retentive glutton for chronology, I aim to release said emotions in a neat and tidy series - without hope or expectation, without sympathy or self-pity, and with unrestricted love and honesty.

A strange thing happened when I was landing in DCA Thursday night: I felt like I was home. At the sight of the capitol building, I felt happily at peace in a city where my heart is - close to my parents, my handsome boyfriend, my dance party pup, and my supportive friends. The tall structure I used to call "that monument" stoically shone in the hazy night, and for the first time I felt appreciative. Life is a surprising and beautiful thing when a high strung New Yorker can uncover deeper parts of herself in our Nation's stuffy capital. It's a magical process when the same woman can find peace in a place where peace is rarely lobbied for and mostly just pipe dream. Peace, for me, being a great running route where a flirty blue heron is always happy to see me, wonderful yoga studios, a tribe of inspiring coworkers and shopping with my mom at Bloomingdale's. Sure the service at District restaurants is shitty at best, but I survive through shared complaining and a little thing called patience.

Patience has never come easy to me like writing or shopping for shoes does. Patience is something I have to really work at and be reminded of over and over again. Just when I take one slow beautiful step in the direction of serenity, my flagrant impatience pushes me two paces back. But with awareness, I am consistently moving. As the airplane inched it's way towards the gate, rather than grabbing for my phone or fidgeting with my bag, I stared at the capitol building thinking about my boyfriend who was fast asleep very near there. How beautiful he is when he sleeps. How I wished to be in bed with him. How I couldn't wait to see him the next day.

My boyfriend was instrumental in aiding my patience as he is reasonable and mindful. He calmly and respectfully reminded me when I fell below the patience line and as a result, I started to catch myself earlier. I restrained my desire to scream out loud when he was  slowly folding his sweaters or yell from the rooftop in reckless abandon when he slept in and I was AWAKE. Rather, I just laid there staring at his peaceful rest until he woke.

I'm a bit of a creep.

This translated. In line at Whole Foods I was slowly but certainly more serene, using the opportunity to put a smile on someone's face or browse through Real Simple. At yoga, rather than Type A-ing my way through class, I actually breathed. Over the past few months, the most significant people in my life have started to feel more comfortable telling me when my short responses and snappy conclusions were coming from a place of impatience. My mom and my best friend encouraged me to keep my passion but let go of some control. My boyfriend created space for me. My team at work kept me accountable to my word.

While I could be patient with other people, I had (and by had I mean have) much difficulty being patient with myself. When I have an emotion, I need to fling it out into the universe at warp speed A.S.A.P. If I am angry, I must tell someone. If I am wildly excited and impassioned, the world needs to know. My Mediterranean personality means my emotions are heightened several degrees and they burn a hole inside of me if I don't release them.

But our weaknesses are also our strengths. This fiery impatience and constant sense of urgency is the reason I thrive in busy environments. It is why I can motivate a group of people and create efficient methods. It has attractive qualities that lend to success in leadership and the ability to quickly attain measurable results. People are inspired as they are immediately rewarded and praised for their hard work; and I move quickly past people's shortcomings. I can rebound from anything. I easily forgive. It. Is. Beautiful.

Except when it's not. During arguments this looks like a clear and dramatic display of my feelings. I expect the other person to see exactly what I mean and empathize with my side very quickly. Only then can I hear the rebuttal. This method is quite difficult as it requires a high level of self- awareness and being quickly in tune with one's emotions in any given situation. Coupled with the average Joe's humane defense mechanisms and man's natural incapacity for empathy, I end up wanting to blow my brains out and stomping very loudly. I'm 28.

My boyfriend was fully accepting of the duality of my patience. It was what he loved about me, and he aided me in elevating my patience. When I would spout off, he kindly brought me back to planet earth. Super slowly but certainly, I spouted off less often. Unfortunately, it was still too frequent for a man with consistent intentionality. I should have known that couldn't actually last because when my impatience is not beautifully motivating and inspiring, It. Is. Ugly.

As was the case last Friday night...

Emma Dinzebach

I made the wrong bus reservation home from New York. Wrong city, wrong date, wrong time, all wrong. Consequently, I had to wait standby for the next bus. Fine. I've been practicing being patient. Patient is me.

This poor man standing next to me was not a seasoned traveler. He had attempted to take the 7:30 a.m. bus, but waited on the wrong corner and missed it. I overheard him on the phone with the bus company explaining his situation. He hung up with the understanding that he could get on the 8:30 a.m. bus, the same bus I was waiting for, without a problem. We stood there waiting - me checking and rechecking my work email and him tapping his foot and looking down the street every ten seconds.

The man did not know that, when riding standby, queue order is most important. If only one open seat remains, the first person gets that seat. If there are two seats, the first two people get on. And so on. No one told him this. When the bus pulled up, I immediately found the driver and asked if I could ride standby. I was person number one in the queue, naturally.  I saw the man putting his luggage on the bus and thought to myself, "Do not put your luggage on unless you are guaranteed a seat sir." But I didn't say anything as I am newly in the business of minding my own business.  We waited. When it was time to board and the woman pointed to me and yelled, "SHE! IS! FIRST!" very loudly and rudely to the other standby-ers inquiring into the standby status.

"Actually, if I can have him go first," I said motioning to the poor man who had been there since 7:00 a.m., "He missed his earlier bus."

"YOU ARE FIRST!" she interrupted. "DO YOU WANT TO GET ON THE BUS?"

"Yes, but his bus was actually earlier..." I started.

"DO YOU WANT TO GET ON THE BUS?"

"Yes but he..."

"WHAT ARE YOU? HIS ATTORNEY? EITHER YOU ARE FIRST OR YOU DON'T GET ON THE BUS!" she said.

Oh my.

"Well thank you anyway," said the guy as the bus driver took a call on her cell phone. When she hung up, she announced that one was getting on the bus due to a booking error. One problem remained: the guy's luggage was on the bus.

"I TOLD YOU NOT TO PUT YOUR LUGGAGE ON THIS BUS! THIS IS NOT YOUR BUS! THIS IS NOT! YOUR! BUS!" she yelled, forcing the poor man to open the luggage door and take out everyone's luggage to get to his, which was stupidly placed in the back. Again, no one told him. At the sight of the massive luggage removal, the bus driver freaked out. I'm not sure what she told the people on the bus, but suddenly a herd of passengers rushed off the bus and yelling at the man and pushing their luggage back in. I've never seen anything like it. It was pure panic, but there was no emergency.

I backed away with my luggage and went back to our waiting place on the wall, next to the deli, with air-conditioner juice dripping all over us. There was nothing lux about this situation. So we waited. Waited. Waited. I made some work phone calls and freaked out about a little nothingness per usual and the 9:30 a.m. bus pulled up. At this point, one would think the man would have a better understanding of stand by. Not so much. Again, I asked the driver (dude this time) to ride standby. He told me to stand aside and that I was first. I see the guy in the distance looking at his luggage and stressing the fuck out to whomever he is speaking with on the phone. Probably the poor woman who works at the bus company. I grew concerned for this man, but then another, larger man tapped on my shoulder. He did not have exact change and to pay-to-ride you need exact change. He was wondering if we can pay together. Certainly we could pay together, but he was quite a few down in the queue and I'd have to  explain it to the bus driver. Again, the new bus driver said, "You are first. You can board the bus." The first man was now standing kind of by the line confused, scratching his head. I could not take it.

"Actually, he was first," I said pointing to the man.

"NO he wasn't!" interrupted the crotchety woman behind me.

"YES he was," I replied, looking back and glaring a the woman. "And mind your own business."

The new bus driver was much less concerned with rules than the 8:30 a.m. bus driver, so he let the unseasoned traveler go first and me second. When I approached the bus drive, I attempted to tell him about the payment situation.

"There is a guy a few back," I began.

"THAT IS NOT FAIR!" interrupted the woman behind me, literally craning her neck around me, eyes bugging out of her head.

"No," I attempted to clarify. "He doesn't need to cut the line I just wanted to..."

"NOT! FAIR!" and you know when people get that weird spit stuff in the corners of their mouth. I was about to vomit.

"But..."

"I don't think that's fair," said the bus driver siding with the woman. I hadn't even explained anything yet!

I gave up. Clearly this bus situation was every man for himself. Survival of the fittest. That dude without exact change was on his own. Don't say I didn't try.

I wish this were the end.

Quietly and calmly, I chose my seat and sat down to dial into my 9:30 a.m. call. Behind me, I heard a different equally grotesque old(er) woman.

"You are in my pers-on-al space," she said curtly to the passenger beside her. I peered behind me and saw that poor exact changeless-man sitting beside her. Now, to be fair to the woman, the guy was a bit bigger than the average Joe and would likely be in anyone's personal space.

Offended the man replied, "I am not in your space. This is my space. This is your space. How am I in your space?"

"You are, and you need to move over I can't have you crowding my seat whole trip."

"I'm not in your space."

"Yes you are."

"No I'm not."

Am I in hell? I turned around because at this point, I've lost all hope for humanity. "You all are being inappropriate and disturbing the rest of the passengers on the bus," I said shortly.

"Wu-hell!" began the woman, "I have a right to some solidarity," she said. I wondered if that is the correct choice of words. One would be quite foolish to choose a budget bus as an environment for solidarity. Even still, solidarity wasn't the right word.

"It's because of the color of my skin!" said the man. Oh for crying out loud. Here we go.

"It is not! Do you know who you are talking to?" says the woman.

"No,  I don't," says the man.

Rewind: I'm not in regular hell; I'm in hell for idiots.

So I turned back around, "Would you like to switch places with me?" I asked the woman.

She looked around like she didn't hear me properly. She appeared very confused, so I added, "You might be more comfortable up here."

"Yes, I think I will," she said. I closed my computer, put it back in my bag, and got up. She just sat there looking like a deer in headlights. She did not move.

"Well," I said, "gather your personal belongings." She snapped back to reality and gathered her belongings. I slid in next to the bigger man who did not have exact change, and dialed into my phone call three minutes late.

For the record, the man sat with this fly unzipped, smelled and was snoring loudly nearly the entire trip, which I decided was infinitely better than the woman complaining about the man, fly unzipped, smelling badly and snoring loudly the whole trip.

Oh, I left out the part about the crackhead woman chewing on her tongue who twice tried to get on the bus with a cigarette, but I think you get the picture just as well.

Emma Dinzebach

Thus far I've successfully restrained myself from venturing toward a cliched and overwrought comparison of New York City versus the beltway. What's even the point? As far as I'm concerned, it's a waste of time. Like comparing champagne and apple juice. San Tropez to Pensacola. Ninjasonik with Nickleback. Missionary versus Insatiable Appetite. Okay, so you might drink apple juice in Pensacola on your way to see Nickleback and have an ounce of fun doing so; but it's no champagne in St. Tropez. It's no Grand St. in Daylight. Not. Even. Close.

Recently though I brushed on this conversation with my New York-bred boss who said in regards to all the city-transplants in the District, "Can't you just say 'That was a really great time!' and leave it there?" My eyes filled with tears. Was I going to start crying over this? Why the extreme reaction? Maybe I left too soon. Maybe I am meant for late nights and fashion frenzy. Maybe I like being poor all the time. Rather poor than perpetually uninspired...

And like that, the comparison I vowed not to take turned into a slippery slope of this versus that-ness.

But I stopped myself midway through because I don't want my boyfriend to have to listen to this A-gain.

Plus all of my ratty contrasting doesn't really matter if you are a Vineyard Vines-loving ladies man with mediocre culinary taste. Say you don't care much for art and design  (these people do in fact exist, I just don't really know them), then D.C. is tolerable. If you like a solid bar-scene and thrive in a relatively small environment, welcome home my friend. Happy hours are like fucking manna from heaven. Excuse moi. I just cannot describe it without using my judgmental judging tone, and I'm committed to 3% less judging, which started at 20% less judging but I realized I needed some non-judging successes under my belt. Baby steps people. Baby steps.

All in all, comparing and judging are getting me no where. Still, every single weekend I complain that D.C. taxis are the bane of my existence. That I cannot get a good bagel. That my essential self is screaming to dance. I cannot help but harp about how much better it is in New York City, and we are sick of hearing it. We are.

Maybe if I could actually preserve the memories of "a really good time" in a special place inside my heart, I could peacefully and fully move forward. After all, comparing is a bit like living in the past. So in addition to inhibiting my efforts to judge less, these nasty comparisons are toxic to the present moment.

In the end of the bloody day, I have two important things in Washington, D.C. that I never had in New York City: a job that I absolutely love and a sexy boyfriend who in addition to fulfilling my International Kissing Day desires actually makes me a more grounded, more patient, and more tolerant version of myself. So one could potentially argue that our nation's capital has been quite good for me.

And yet, it kills me to admit that. Absolutely kills me.

Emma Dinzebach

Photo via Get @ Me.

Without getting too personal or exposing or whatever, I had an issue with my boyfriend recently where I was forced to accept the unknown. And even though that's not really my jam, like whatsoever, I thought I could successfully practice the ancient art of letting go.

I failed miserably.  For me, solutions come from fully understanding problems. I want to get to the bottom of things. That's why my degree is in psychodynamic psychotherapy: I believe that understanding the "why" and more importantly the "how it got that way" is essential to acceptance and solvation. (That's not a real word. I just made it up. It means the "action" of solving something. It's the noun of "to solve.") Anyway, I can't really get into it as said bf and I have an ongoing disagreement about my tendency toward vomiting my feelers on a public forum. To my credit, I've been much more restrained than I used to back in the glory days. My ability to fully detail a given issue at hand has been unfortunately but successfully curbed by love. Fucking love. Love is simultaneously blissful and restrictive. Or am I choosing be live restricted? Having yet to reach the root of my restriction, I stepped back.

I've always been a bit of a spitfire, firecracker, a rule-breaker (yep, bonafide badass) - a light fighter of sorts but with a self-destructive ability to forgive and forget. I have strong convictions. This I know. This I hold. For my convictions, I find release in letting the extreme versions flow unfiltered. It allows me to be level-headed and convenient in everyday life. However, the whole cautious approach to my blog I've relationship-adopted over the past six or so month seals my outlet. And is so blah boring.

I detest boredom.

While there are many things I compromise because I love the people closest to me in my life (and wouldn't dream to throw them under the dirty blog bus just because I feel the need to express myself ad nauseum), I cannot compromise stimulation via theatrics en scripto. Not going to do that. Nope. Not never. I am however, going to go ahead and change a few things on my blog. Moving forward, you will find these chronicles scattered with:

• Histrionic complaints at my leisure. 
  
• Dirt...because if you can't get dirty on the internet, where can you?
  
• A dash more sex. I mean, what's the point in being "the sexy one" if you never mention getting it on.
• Reality. Sure, I'm learning lessons all the time; but if I were in the business of preaching, I'd have been born Jesus Christ. Or Jesse Jackson.
  

Plus, this godawful blog is in fact written by a still-technically-single young woman (and amazing dancer to boot) navigating a challenging career and growing a relationship in a city void decent DJs, where people dress like assholes and literally don't follow the proper bagel-making processes. (Thanks for that Cozzi.) Even my dog looks at me like "Can we go home now?" Every day is beauty and every day is a bit of a struggle. A struggle to be 20% less judgmental. A struggle to walk more slowly. A struggle to tolerate inefficiency. A struggle to, at the end of the day, recenter and remind myself that a life characterized by restrictive struggles is no way for a hot girl and a footloose Turkey to get down.

Yet we are here, and here is where we choose to be. So rather than come to terms with the struggle - because that's a big bore - I'm committing to releasing said restriction. Wrecklessly. Intentionally. And write (sic) here for your viewing pleasure.

Emma Dinzebach

Jacob Love via www.ashadedviewonfashion.com

Admittedly, I have swayed from my commitment to write every week. I'm not even going to use the fact that life has thrown some weird shit my way in the past few months as an excuse. I cannot use the death of my writing accountability steward as an excuse as my new writing accountability steward is wonderful, on point and consistent. Lack of content is the worst scapegoat as I can always write about that I don't know what to write about it. I mean, it's not that entertaining; but everyone knows that it doesn't matter what song gets you on the dance floor, it's how you shake it once you're out there.

Even my employees and close friends have been consistently asking me, "Are you writing?"

Me: "No." (I've outgrown trying to lie about this.)

Someone: "Why?"

Me: "Because I haven't been making time for it."

Someone: "Oh. Why haven't you been making time for it?"

Me: "I guess unconsciously I want to live an insignificant and mediocre life."

Someone: "That's weird Emma."

It is totally "weird" - my failure to devote time attention to something I intrinsically enjoy doing. Frankly, avoidance is self-destructive. If most people sabotage themselves through action, I sabotage myself through inaction. Which sucks because I am the sole activator when it comes to my writing. I mean, duh. If I want significant results, I am personally responsible for making them happen. And if I cannot do that with something so inherent to my being, how will I feel fulfilled in the rest of my life.

In order to be my authentic self and rise above mediocrity, I have to fill myself with time with authentic expression - in my case, writing. If I'm failing to carve out time to nurture said authentic self, then what the hell is the point? Like, of life? For me, repressed creativity is detrimental to being fully functioning causing built up possibility sans outlet. Just me, 5'3, going to work, to yoga, to dinner and paddle boarding and theater and concerts and NYC and blah, blah, blah. All the while not feeling like I am doing anything for myself and I'm just a boring, average Josephine. It's like when you really want a chocolatey dessert so you eat fruit, then sorbet, then some craisins, then cereal, but nothing satisfies you because you really want dessert dessert. So finally you give yourself the chocolate when you should have just done so in the first place and could have saved yourself 300 calories.

It's. Just. Like. That.

So here I am, week after week filling up on dried fruit and fucking bananas, wishing I had something sweet to eat. I have my Master's Degree in human behavior. My mother is a Life Coach. I work at the most self-aware-centric company in the history of the world. I have no excuse for this. There is not a soul to to blame but my damn self. It's not my lack of time, inspiration, content, encouragement from others or anything else. C'est moi.

Okay, so I am personally responsible. Now I'm trying to remember if admittance is a catalyst to change...
or maybe I need to hire my mother.

Emma Dinzebach


Photo via Christopher Gindlesperger

Looking back, I really need therapy when I broke up with my boyfriend of a year and a half after he cheated on me... the second time. But I didn't go to therapy. I sort of wish someone would have encouraged me more. Although, I wouldn't have listened because I don't like when people tell me what to do. Instead, I chucked a bag of laundry at my brother, threw my cell phone across the street, and locked myself in a car with a complete stranger and who, with me yelling and screaming and all was confused by the nature of our relationship, called the police on my brother sometime before or after the laundry bag incident. I wrote some of the most depressing shit ever. Like ever.

I was not in a good state.

A series of decisions neither good nor poor but mostly just lazy led me to similar, albeit more mild, situations time and again. Rather than making decisions that propelled me forward, I made decisions that required less effort, less thought. In dating, in work, in life. Then one day I woke up and realized I hated my job, my apartment, my hair cut, my thighs, and even my handbag collection. I was destined for something more! 

No, that's not how it happens. Losses, few of which I fully mourned - passing friendships, dudes I dated, writing gigs and random jobs - began to accrue. Super slowly I saw that I chose said losses. And in a champagne daze, noticed that I wasn't building much in terms of sustainability neither in my personal development nor my love life. Not even my work really. I was living a very fun life, but not a very full one.

I really needed some therapy.

See I'm a quick start. That means I thrive off of the beginning stages of projects, relationships, jobs, even online shopping and then move onto the next thing. I accomplish things quickly, but not always 100%. On the bright side, I'm a visionary. On the dark side, I am a quitter.  At my best, I enroll someone strong in follow through. At my worst, I apathetically leave a trail of losses.  One the one hand, I am resilient. On the other, I fail to fully process thus repeating my mistakes. Why do you think I've been on eighty-ish first dates? I'm actually a charming first impression, sexy eyes and all. My eighth grade teacher quoted, "Our strengths are our weaknesses!" But Ralph Waldo Emerson said our strengths grow from our weaknesses.

Maybe my eight grade teacher was eyes.

Some time even later, I woke up feeling utterly blasé. So totally helter skelter I decided to move forward. I hastily cut my French boyfriend lose and bid adieu to my  dancefloor friends. I gave that which I could predict and vowed to follow through with the unknown. I said goodbye to my shoe repair, tailor, vino chico, laundry guy, and Mia's nazi veterinarian. With my classy dog and my pretty (if obtrusive) ego, I gave a fair shake to my losses. Knowing when I meet them again, I will know their purpose as necessary to grow my own strength.

The world does not need another wasted visionary.

Emma Dinzebach

Whenever I'm having such a shitty week, I miss my friend Lowe. Well, I'm having such a shitty week, and I know she would be able to drag me out of it because she is the most amazing human being I will ever know. She is encouraging and supportive while gentle and generous. Lowe's industrious and impactful ways are inspiring. She gives without expecting anything in return. In fact, when she moved to Geneva, she gave me her Trek bike. Every time I rode it, I thought of her and her and felt her warm encouragement. No matter where I was, part of her spirit joined me.

Then this week that bike was stolen.  (Lowe, I'm so sorry, but your bike was stolen.)

I literally left it next to my garage to go inside and open the garage and bring it in. When I got there, it was gone. Five minutes, tops. And I live in a really nice neighborhood next to national park land. Maybe a racoon rode away on it. But a stolen bike alone didn't make my week shitty. Four of my employees gave their end-of-the-month notice. (Mostly because they are off to fulfill their goals, which I love and am truly excited for them. I just wish they didn't all go at once.) Then I had a $22.50 cab ride to my boyfriend's. Then my boyfriend and I got into an argument followed by an argument about how often we've been getting into arguments. Then Starbucks burned the coffee, a-gain. Then my friend and I were texting how much we miss New York; and I went into bunny-ears-on-the-dancefloor withdrawal. Then I felt lonely. Now I feel lonely, rather.


My patient boyfriend has grown tired of the tribulations associated with being Emma Dinzebach this week; and honestly, I'm starting to feel bad blabbing it all to him. I need a friend who, knowing all the times I've royally effed up in my life, still believes in me with unwavering loyalty. I need Lowe.

Lowe is thankful for me. She is confident that I enrich her life. And she is proud of me, not like a parent proud of me; but on her own free will, she is proud of me. She never fails to express her gratitude for our friendship or my listening or my blind guidance.

Lowe moves me.

At the end of this not-so-great week, I really needed someone to move me. My mom is out of town. My boyfriend is visiting his parents. My brother is doing his laundry. My best friend didn't answer. Mia is trying her best with a bisou-a-thon. What I really need is a dose of my pal Lowe, but she lives in Central African Republic. I have no idea what time it is there. So my next best option is to remind myself that I have been uncomfortable before and am here to tell the tale. Like that time I survived that long and painful camel ride through the Sahara because Lowe made us sing "Hooked on a Feeling." And I am cooler because of it. So maybe I'll be wiser because my bike was stolen. Or better with a leaner team. Or elevate Starbucks with feedback. Or elevate my relationship with love.

(You know some people they just won't understand these things.)

Emma Dinzebach

I wish I could say that, in the wake of shocking tragedy, what has stood out for me the most is the overwhelming love and kind support. While that has been steady and relentless, what actually stands out - as in, unexpected -  is the audacious, discourteous crudity human beings are comfortable displaying.

Last week, for instance, my coworker said, "A guy came in here. Josh I think. He said he used to know a girl who worked in Bethesda. When we asked him who it was he said, 'Emma.' We were like, 'She works here!' And he seemed excited. Then he looked around then left. Do you know a guy named Josh?"

I know one hundred Joshes.

But only one awkward enough to come into my place of employment shamelessly asking about me. Only one that would have been mistaken for gay. He has a pretty face.

"Was he Hispanic?" I asked. He was.

"Did he talk loudly?" He did.

"Might he have been full of himself?" He might have.

"Ugh...I went on a date with that guy," I admitted. I didn't write about it because he wore those True Religion jeans with the white stitching and a graphic polo like he was Ricky Martin about to shake his bon bon (Yes, I judge what people are wearing. Especially guys I go on dates with.); and I was embarrassed.

A little while later, I walked through the fit room and ran straight into Josh Gonzalez. Eff.

"Oh, hi. Josh. Hi. How are you? Good to see you? Hi..." I repeated feeling incredibly impatient and annoyed.

"Hi! Good to see you too!" Then he kissed both cheeks like a wanna be French person. "I walked in earlier, and they told me you worked here and that you would be in at three, so I thought I would stop in after my lunch meeting with my client." He was staring down at my hips. I followed his eyes and realized they were focused on my fanny pack. 

"Um, I don't normally wear fanny packs. Just today because I want to show how cool this one actually is..." I trailed off, starting to open it like I was actually going to explain the Bum Bag.

"Actually, I'm into fanny packs. If you would have stuck around you have found that out. Oh well. Your loss."  I looked up at him and swallowed the throw up in my mouth. "Anyway, so there was a mur-der in your store?! That was crazy. Did you know that girl? That was cra-zy! I mean, what happened?!"

Rendered speechless, I just stood there. I mean, seriously? Some human beings are complete idiots. This was the sixteenth or seventeenth time a person had overtly displayed high levels of insensitivity and tactlessness in the past couple weeks, and I was so over even dealing with it. When he saw the disgusted look on my face he said, "Well, let's not talk about it?"

"Yeah, let's not," I said in my meanest and most sarcastic tone.

"Oh, still sassy I see!" he said. And this time I held my breath so as not to throw up all over his Express Men's shirt. Although in retrospect, I wish I could have projectile vomited on demand. Like you know how people can burp the alphabet? I would just throw up on rude boys.

His phone rang, and he said, "I need to take this." He proceeded to walk around the store obnoixiously talking on phone. My coworker pulled me aside and asked, "Who is that guy?" I rolled my eyes. My face must have turned red because her eyes widened and she said "Oh, Emma." This was worse than the time I had to duck behind cash when I guy I had a one night stand with walked in. Even worse than the time I locked myself in the fitting room for 30 minutes while a guy I never called back tried on pants. And it gets worse.

"Well, I have to go," he declared as he hung up his phone and approached me again.

"Okay, well have a great weekend," I said plainly.

"Oh, I meant to tell you...So my friend started this website I thought you might want to check out. I thought it might align with your philiospohical beliefs or your company's philosophical beliefs. It's called chexout.com. It's a website for anonymous STD testing." Please make it stop.

Let me clarify, this guy knows nothing about my "philosophical beliefs." We went on 1.5 dates, and I never called him back.

"Excuse me?" I said, shocked.

"Yeah, I thought you might like it. Write it down. Write it down so you don't forget."

"Listen, I can remember it. I don't need to write it down. And the only person who tells people what to do around here is me. Have a nice evening Josh," I replied.

Truly, I don't think he got it. He just smiled and went on about something else, then bid farewell to the entire store like he was a regular. So rude. So clueless. And I have stories actually worse than this one - so bad that they are too inappropriate to publish. The moral of the story children, is to approach situations - no matter the discomfort they produce - with civility, courtesy and kindness. And every now and then, treat yourself to a new pair of jeans.

Emma Dinzebach

Alcohol never gave me hangovers. It used to torture my mother because I'd break curfew, be out all night (I was a rebel of sorts), come home obviously slightly intoxicated, then wake up fresh, chipper and ready for the day. She would scowl in my direction as I laced my running shoes and headed out the door for a morning run. While many parents used hangovers as a reliable crutch as to why their teenagers shouldn't drink alcohol, my mother had to be more creative. (I also don't buy the 21 years old thing, but that's a politically-charged and morally debatable post for another day when I'm not...)

A blessing and curse, I didn't have a solid grasp on my alocohol consumption because the after effects were slim to none. This went on for a while - post-college dance clubs, after parties, and skipping around town until everyone else was tired and had gone to bed. Unless I had done something indubitably stupid - like taken a shot of Jagermeister at 4 a.m. or skipped dinner - I was fine to go to work the following morning or entertain out of town family or take a Bikram yoga class. No. Problem. Whatsoever.


This morning I woke up at 6:40 a.m. feeling a bit off. I'm not nauseous. I don't have a headache. No, I'm not pregnant. It's more this tired, aching feeling in my eye sockets that I've recently been referring to as a "grownup hangover." I didn't notice it until about a year ago when I started taking my job more seriously. Determined to do my best and prove my worth, I committed to more sleep and less nights on the dance floor in the off chance those two factors affected my job performance. Plus, my job is so social (complete with dancing) that some days I get home and feel like I've been "out" all day. Social energy requires pique performance; thus the change. Slight change. But change nonetheless.

However slight, the change was enough to transform the dance floor-addicted version of me into a bona fide grownup. If I have too many champagne cocktails or even too much wine at dinner (See also: last night), I get this grownup hangover. Do I feel slightly pathetic that 2.5 glasses of Sauvignon Blanc can induce said eye socket ache pain? And embarrassed that I'm worried the guy in Starbucks can tell? And also stupid that I'm admitting this to public. Yes to all.

"So you have your grownup hangover right now," my friend confirmed.

"Yes. But you know, at least it means I had fun last night!" I exclaimed.

"You did!!! And that's what matters. Wait, what did you do again?" she asked. I hesitated.

"I... well, I painted my nails and watched The Office," I replied shamefully. I saw the look on her face.

Defeated, I have vowed this weekend to wear high heels and short dress and go out dancing and champagning. If I am to live in the age of grownup hangovers, it will damn well be worth it.

Emma Dinzebach

This took so long to write because sincerely, I wanted my first entry after Jayna's death to speak to her excellency in holding me accountable for my writing. A standout accountability steward she was: sending weekly texts longing for Emma Dilemma entries, calling me on my writing trip to make sure I was working diligently on my book, and gently scolding me when she caught me mid-shopping or at the nail salon. Jayna had a particular way of lacing her sternness in humor and love without masking the main message. "We all know you're an excellent shopper, but the world craves your written word. Get your ass back to work!"

I miss that.

Once Jayna started telling me about something she read in Elizabeth Gilbert's Committed. She explained to her always captive audience that when you let go of obsessing over "letting go," you create space for things that could not have otherwise been. Then she stopped, tilted her head and looked at me. "Wait. That wasn't in a book. That was on your blog!" she shouted jumping up and waving her stumpy fist in the air like she just discovered new land. "I thought that sounded familiar," I said, smiling and moved on like it wasn't a big deal. But it was. Jayna confused my blog for a really famous author's best selling book! I was in future best-selling writer heaven. I told everyone I know.

While I can recount anecdote after anecdote about how Jayna was and continues to be an instrumental force behind my writing, all of those stories make me miss her more. And frankly, she would tell me enough already. Jayna would encourage me to move on from the way things were. So that's what I'm committing to now.

In a myriad of ways, because in my healing process, I have changed. My friends and family irritate me a little bit less than they used to, and my poor boyfriend irritates me a little bit more. Apparently our glorified honeymoon stage has become an impasse leaving us just standing here staring at each other like: "Who the hell is this person and what the hell are they doing in my life?" Jayna predicted this feeling would come and warned me that once it did, it would never go away. So rather than being forever stuck in this feeling, she suggested moving towards acceptance. Thus I'm moving towards acceptance. Excuse moi, we are moving towards acceptance.

Today my friend Petra told me: "Emma, this is when the real relationship starts."

Well, shit.

But this is the course of all relationships, right? Jayna and I didn't become really close friends until we had several stubborn disagreements of which I was naturally not being the stubborn one. The closest relationships I have are those where we can disagree then tweak our communication styles until we find a balance that works for both of us. Sometimes this balance comes easily. Other times, I give up quickly - like with running partners, hockey players and dry cleaners. Then there are relationships where tweaking said communication requires tweaking thy self. Along with a dose of humbleness, which I'm not so good at. A great deal of patience, which I detest. Equanimity, which is far from my strength. Transparency, which I'm working towards. And most of all, forgiveness. Because in all likelihood, in trying to move forward, I will take some steps back.

And these are the important, life-changing relationships because life's a little bitch like that.

Emma Dinzebach

People around me are saying they don't like Valentine's Day. (Oh, not at work. At work we love Valentine's Day!) But people in general - my nail lady and neighbor. I even a group of girls outside of the yoga studio complaining that it's a a "Hallmark holiday" laden in social pressure, unrealistic expectations and gross consumption. I'm guessing their boyfriends are poor. My friend's husband even said Valentine's Day is an expensive waste of money and whined about being forced to show your love in socially acceptable ways. "If I love her I should be able to show it whenever I want!" "And if you actually did so, we probably wouldn't need Valentine's Day," I retorted. And so on and so forth. I agree, there are gross things about it - overpriced roses, high caloric consumption and even more so, the way Hallmark's cash-cultivating holiday has spread Eastward retaining the material pressure but leaving the message of love behind. For real, you think dudes here have pressure? Try living in Ghana. I'd argue it's no different than Christmas in that regard and possibly better because of the whole love thing, but Christmas has Jesus. You know how people get over Jesus.

Is a day that you are given free reign to tell people that you love them even so bad? Sure for people who have trouble expressing their emotions and pent up resentment because they had their hearts broken and now use maladaptive defense mechanisms to ward them against expressing their authentic selves and, and blah, blah, blah. But really? So once or twice or several times you were burned by something disguised as genuine love. A cheating boyfriend. An evil stepmother. A negative nelly of a friend. That doesn't mean you can't be and won't be genuinely loved. I actually think that having your heart broken is good for you. That raw and exposed feeling allows you to to be in touch with yourself in a manner otherwise hard to recreate. Feeling heartbroken means you tried for something. Albeit the something seemingly failed; but that emptiness is space that can be filled with something so great.  Have I digressed or is this still relevant? Anyway, without sounding so preachy and cliche or whatever, use the day to focus on the positive, love-filled aspects of your life and tell those people how special and loved they are.

And in that light, I want to thank my boyfriend for not being at all not even a little bit someone who complains about Valentine's Day and using every chance he can get to make me feel special and loved. And my parents for at one point loving each other enough to create me and then my step parents for showing my real parents that they can again love. And to thank my brother for continually reminding me that humans aren't the only creatures who need love, but dogs and deer and turtles too. For the sake of your sanity, I'll skip everyone else and just say that for a snippy, sometimes sarcastic, maybe a hint snotty and a teeny tiny bit bossy girl, I am also quite loving. Should you feel lacking there in this Valentine's Day, please feel free to give me a holla because I have plenty of sugary love to go around.

Emma Dinzebach

My District bestie, Kaitlyn Ferrara, is walking in this Washington D.C. charity event called "Fashion for Paws" with one freckle-faced shiba inu who you might know better by her work terrifying pooches at the Washington Square Park dog run. Don't let her sleepy Dior-lined eyes fool you; she's feisty. While writing a very similar, most color description of Miss Mia for Kaitlyn's charity happy hour invite, I got to thinking about Turkey en generalmente. Like, where did this Turkey even come from?

I met my first shiba inu my senior year of college on a trip to San Diego. My friend Pierre was staying with these people who had two dogs: one female hound/pit/lab mutt named Willie and a male shiba inu named Tosh. Confusing because Willie was short for like Wilma or something and Tosh was not short of Natasha because Tosh was a dude dog. Anyway, Tosh wanted nothing to do with Pierre, but enter three girls (myself + 2) and Tosh turned into a happy snuggle pup. Turns out, Tosh loved chicks. And we loved that sweet, foxy fox dog and his curly tail.

Then I moved to Manhattan and learned that fox dogs are good apartment dogs because they rarely bark and require little space. I walked around saying "Fox dog!" "Fox dog!" "Fox dog!" whenever I spotted one. I wanted a fox dog. 

Fast-forward. I was dating a musician with a lovely singing voice but aversion to exercise.  He used to go outside, get his shirt wet with the hose, then  come inside and pretend he had gone running. In all fairness, I might have told him that 80-year-old men run faster than him. It wasn't my kindest moment. Well, even with borderline man-boobs, he somehow managed to have this following of girls. Fans, if you will. Occasionally the fans were a bit close for comfort and on one such occasion, I received a Facebook message from a blonde named Corinne that read: "Your boyfriend wanted me to come over tonight and had I done it we certainly would have hooked up. I just found out he has a girlfriend. Sorry." Along with a barrage of message exchanges between she and my boyfriend. Gross.

I yelled for a long time. Some might even say I screamed. Until eventually, I broke up with him. The next day I received a call from him pleading, "Come over. Please just come over for five minutes. I have something for you. You don't have to stay and I know you hate me right now, but please come over. Just five minutes."

You see where this is going?

He opened the door to his bedroom and on a pillow on the floor was a red and white shiba inu puppy with a pink ribbon bow around her neck. She looked up at me with her freckle fox face. What was I supposed to do? I was twenty-three, and I was like "Awwwww. Ohhhhh. Our fammmmily." Gag. In retrospect, I should have taken dog and peaced. Mistakes were made.

Six months later I walked in on him in bed with someone else.

But the real point of the story is that out of a relationship laden in learning opportunities, I became the doting mother to a borderline brilliant, obviously beautiful and quite athletic shiba inu who loves the D-floor and like her mother, is a bit of a grinder. I used to brag on her princessness and other wonderful qualities, but then she just became and integrated part of me. Sure, I have no problem telling anyone, "My dog is smarter than yours... and probably you." But with time, I talk about her less and appreciate her more - for her relentless happiness, for her ironic aversion to men, because she won't last two minutes in a Halloween costume but will sit still while I paint her nails and best of all, for continuously reminding me that it's always a good time to dance.

Emma Dinzebach

I was innocently listening to my iPod and scribbling away in my journal about letting go of my expectations and living in the moment, I notice several different guys starting in my direction. I am positively careful not to make eye contact. This is my sunshine afternoon to myself, and I will not have it blackened by the likes of some random.

So I managed to avoid several male onlookers and as I was thinking I should make another attempt to find this boutique I'd passed a few days earlier, a short and stocky Asian dude sat next to me and said: "What are you listening to?"
Me: "Beach House."
Him: "Oh, you like house music!'
Me: "No it's a band, called Beach House."
Him: "I'm a D.J.!"
Me: "Oh, cool."
Him: "Yeah, I love house music. Do you drive?"
Me: "Like do I know how to drive or do I actively drive?"
Him: "Well, I mean like I don't have a car here, so I don't really drive. I didn't have a car in Chicago either, which meant I didn't drive for seven years. But like last weekend I rented a car and just put a house CD in and drove."
Me: "That sounds bad for the environment."
Him: Nervous laughter. "Well those CD's are like seven hours."

There there was a bit of silence, and I wondered if maybe he was a little slow. He continued to stare at me, and when I was uncomfortable enough I said: "So, um where are you from?"
Him: "You're never going to believe this, but I'm from Wisconsin." Like I would know nothing about the great state of Wisconsin.
Me: "That's funny. I went to the University of Wisconsin."
Him: "What, a fellow badger?!?!" He held up his hand for a high five.

Oh good god. A little vomit filled my mouth because I'm really into high fives. For some reason I'm not that good at them, but what was I to do? He had a sort of rash or maybe it was birthmark thing covering his eye and something was wrong with his left front tooth, like it was mechanically inserted into his gum but with a bit of tooth/gum separation and a bit of blackness around the separation. You can't leave someone like that hanging. So I hesitantly connected my palm to his.

Him: "Yeah, I just moved out here for graduate school."
Me: "Oh what are you studying?"
Him: "[something really scientific with a lot of syllables]" He is Asian remember.
Me: Silence. Because what would I say to that?

I'll spare you the rest of the conversation where he tried to pronounce Sanskrit yoga terms; but note that there was a second high five after which I said I had to go to Nike Town to look for sneakers. While he was still chatting about taking up running, I packed up my journal and bid a quick but polite farewell.

Inside of Nike Town, I stood near women's running sneakers when I noticed a short Asian man peering at me from behind the windbreakers. He ducked down. I registered my impeccable intuition but felt fear free, so I continued towards the men's. From the corner of my eye I could see him around the wall. So I did what any frequently stalked woman would do and ignored him. Several minutes later, I saw him peering from behind the men's basketball mani. This time I quickly but effortlessly rushed towards the escalator to exit. Halfway down, I noticed him standing at the bottom of the escalator next to the security guard.

Him: "I thought I'd check out some new kicks too! Thanks for the idea!"
Me: "Oh, good luck with that."
Him: "Good luck with yoga and writing and going to see art and running and..."

I was mostly appalled by my casual ability to openly share with a desperate stranger. In that moment, I realized why I have so many weird, crazy, creepy dude stories. This may come as a shock to you: I'm hopelessly nice. Nice to a fault. I feel bad for these dudes. It's hard to go up to a pretty woman, sunlight catching her green eyes, hair blowing in the wind and whatnot. I think of that MTV show with that guy and he tried to teach those nerdy guys how to score chicks. I would have talked to all of those guys, which I guess makes me a leader on-er of sorts.

Emma Dinzebach

For weeks I've been promising inquiring readers, my accountability steward, my boss, aunt, shoe repair guy, spin instructor and so on that this would be the week that I would emerge from my artistic repression and break my blog silence. I've tried to write this post seven times, weighting the posts with heavy titles like "Creative Containment" and "Breaking the Silence" and fluffing them with sexy pictures and airhead sarcasm. The words felt inauthentic. The strange style betrayed my voice. Until finally, I settled for a more mild version of me. Without further ado, here goes:

My love is artistically repressive - in part because I spend all of my free time engulfed in said love and in part because the object of my affection is a repressor of sorts. Or that's the story I've created. He didn't particularly warm to the idea that at any moment I might blab his love affair with luon or addiction to Blistex Medicated to heaps of creepy strangers. The possibility of feeling exposed reportedly increases his vulnerability and hinders his ability to act freely. Imagine trying to build a relationship with someone who is consistently concerned that you might, at any moment, air out his dirty unmentionables. Consequently, my desire to mollify his hesitation (see also: make him happy) and build an open and trusting foundation slowly undermined my formerly devoted artistic expression.

Or that's the story I've created.

In fairness to me, he has specifically expressed reservation regarding my creative outlet citing its unpredictable and uncensored nature to which I argue that I would certainly never write anything uncouth about him. I love him. But then what would I write? People in love don't really want to write about snarky dilemmas and certainly none that revolve around dating. There isn't much unpleasant about a world characterized by ardent admiration, enamored captivation and blissful adoration. Plus with all of the passionate sex, who has time to detail a dilemma on a silly little blog? 

Um, I do.

I might be experiencing some sort of nauseating love euphoria, but I'm not living on another planet. Blaming my failure to write on his reservation or our love-drunk happiness conveniently removes personal responsibility and accountability. My artistic repression is a constitution all my own. I failed to organize and prioritize myself in a way that maximizes my time and puts my goal first. Rather, I’ve spent the few hours I can pry myself from his bed in either downward facing dog or shopping. Yes, shopping. I’ve organized and reorganized my jewelry. I’ve written thank you cards and “To Do” list after nasty “To Do” list. I’ve sat on my bed and attempted to meditate, practiced my handstand, cleaned my bathroom. The longer I put it off, the harder it was to write. But if writing is my creative-outlet and I'm not writing, then I'm not expressing myself, living in the moment, achieving harmony and so on.... If I love myself, I will write.

And I for sure love myself.

If my patient and increasingly open boyfriend accepts me in full (god help him), then he will trust that what I create for the e-universe will embody tact and graciousness. What I can do is continue to assure him that while crazy, I'm also thoughtful and sickeningly aware. Feelings need not be sacrificed for the sake of creation...at least not his. As far as everything else, I'm letting that go so I can allow myself to create freely and frequently. And I apologize in advance for all the sappy Bruno Mars-style shit I may write. I heard that happens to artists in love.

Emma Dinzebach

Rewind to a few nights ago on Thanksgiving Part II (I had two Thanksgivings) when my aunt asked if she could give my number to her friend's friend's son's friend or whoever who I had previously agreed was tall enough, musically inclined enough, athletic enough and wealthy enough to date me. Exhausted from black Friday and consequently unconsciously on auto pilot I said, "Yes." But then I paused, and my face twisted. My forehead wrinkled. I need a bit of Botox, I thought. "Well..." I stammered while I tried to sort through my thoughts so I could pull out one that actually made sense. "Um, actually..."

"I think Emma has a boyfriend," said my mom.

"Do you have a boyfriend?" asked my aunt in a voice that made me feel like I was the nerd in high school who no one ever wanted to kiss.

"You have a boyfriend?" yelled my grandma from across the room. I thought she couldn't hear.

Rapid rushes cognitive dissonance made my brain start to ache and I rubbed my temples. I took a deep breath.
The "b" word was borderline giving me an anxiety attack.

My dad always told me not to put all of my eggs in one basket. Plus, I'm liberal. See also: pro- diversification. There are many pros to dating several dudes: I don't have to rely on just one person to meet every requirement. I go on lots of dates, which I love. And I'm bit princessy in that I like being courted and fussed over. Diversifying my dates means that I'm not the go to for every ounce the emotionally repressed garbage that surfaces when you begin to feel particularly close with someone.

The answer "no" teetered on the edge of my tongue just begging to jump out but I couldn't let it because the answer, with-a-little-wiggle-room-so-I-don't-feel-like-I'm-going-to-pass-out, is not "no."

"Emma, did I just hear you have a boyfriend?" yelled my uncle from the kitchen. My face burned, but still no words came out. I felt like my seventh grade algebra teacher who never failed to call on me when I was lustfully daydreaming about Justin Hayward walking through the halls of the middle school, his pants all low and skateresque. He was my Jordan Catalano. Although I was much cooler than Angela Chase, I recreated their hallway exchanges verbatim. He would walk up to and say, "Emma?" I would bat my eyelashes to encourage him to sing my name again.  "Emma?" he repeated. "HELLO TO EMMA! What is the the probability of choosing a green M&M?"

"Huh?"

"Well, what does he do?" asked my grandpa for the second time.

"I...um, I don't know..."

"You don't know what he does? Then he's not your boyfriend," declared my grandpa.

"No, I know what he does, Grandpa." I insisted. 

"Well, I won't give him your number if you have a boyfriend," my aunt concluded.

"Can we stop saying the 'b' word? Give him my number...or don't. Maybe don't. I mean, do whatever you want," I said dismissively. Sensing my hesitation, my family moved topics.

What just happened? I wondered as I walked back downstairs so my two-year old cousin could fix me another pretend cat food milkshake, this time with banana. Why was I so caught off guard? Why did I need to over-dramatize a simple question? Most of the heterosexual female population are thrilled to say someone is their boyfriend. Aren't I? The "b" word felt so not a part of my world. It would be like if Charlie Sheen suddenly stopped having sex. Bad analogy actually; but imagine you are this very confident, very strong-willed woman who bounces around from city to city exuding a half essential/half fabricated persona revolving around being single. Everyone loves you this way. You love you this way.

Then one day, you wake up and realize that you haven't been out in several weeks because you spend every night staring into the dark blue eyes of some dude you can't seem to pry yourself away from long enough to have your hair properly colored. It's confusing. Add in your readers and that sorority you consider a place of employment and before your pretty little self can even entertain the "b" word people are sending a barrage of emails and texts begging, "Inquiring minds want to know!"

I would love to say "It's none of your business. And while you're at it get a life," but I've made it their business to know my business because it's actually my business.

That is irony. 

Emma Dinzebach

One post-bellini sunny Sunday I went to this shitty dive bar (and as you know I absolutely detest shitty dive bars) to meet this dude that I was thinking about possibly, maybe dating, when out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a guy I had gone on one date with pouring a beer out of a pitcher. I cringed at the memory of our date, a horribly dull evening and a total waste of calories. He had sent several texts one of which said, "I realize our date was a bit lackluster." A bit lackluster? I thought. That makes lackluster look like New Year's 1999. Afterward, I had written that I'd rather be in a coma than on a date with him. And shit, I honestly couldn't even remember his name.

"How are you?" I said smiling and waving to him, trying desperately to think of his name. Derek? Lance? Dan? I think it's Dan. Eff.

"What's new?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing," I lied. It's annoying when boring people ask "What's up?" because then you go on excitedly about everything you are up to just to politely flip the question and hear an irksome...

"Nothing," he responded. (See I knew it.) These people will respond "nothing" no matter what you say; so you may as well avoid a conversation all together.

Then he stepped aside to pour another beer leaving my friend and I to politely chat with his friend who was admittedly kind of hot. "So how do you know Dave," his friend asked. Dave! Dave. Duh.

"Um, we went out on a date once," I began, "but then I lost my phone." Trying desperately to backpedal I foolishly continued speaking.  "For like two weeks I didn't have the right phone. I lose my phone a lot. When I studied abroad in college, I lost six cell phones..." I babbled.

"Oh, um, I see. Well, sometimes that happens. So what do you think of his place?" he asked.

"His place? Oh, we only went on one date. I didn't go to his place." As if!

"No, his place," he repeated spreading out his arms and gesturing towards the bar.

Then an energy-saving LCD light bulb went off inside my busy little brain, and I remembered that the Dave dude did own a bar. I pictured it much nicer in my mind. My afternoon mission to catch a quick minute with a high potential or whatever landed me in the coma dude's bar. It turned out that the dude I liked was tired from his weekend and being quiet (which I don't even know what to do with), so he went home leaving me in a bar owned by some dude who, as evidenced by the sixty texts he sent me over the following two days, was obviously trying to get with me. I never responded because seriously, I cannot thrive in an environment characterized by broken bathroom sinks and the stench of last night's vomit. The entire afternoon was a colossal waste of time that left me longing to leisurely browse Didier Ludot with a baguette peaking out of my Birkan or sip prosecco atop La Rinascente. It made me miss September Sundays at Felix and strolling along the Hudson with my Mexican boyfriend who was, amongst other things, extremely well-dressed. The whole hairy experience left me downtrodden, romantically deprived and seriously vowing to more meticulously catalog my dates.

Emma Dinzebach

I almost didn’t pass my zoology weed out class in college. Don’t let the world “zoology” trick you; it was hard. With heavy personal shit weighing on my mind, I couldn’t make myself focus on my ancient professor’s dry words. Just before finals, I went to his office and requested to take my final early. He looked at my sad, tired face then my bony borderline unhealthy frame, and closed his eyes. Is he dying? I wondered. After a few minutes, he looked up at me and asked me to promise never to microwave any plastic. Then he gave me an A. I never took the final. Don’t ask me anything about zoology.

I think about that sometimes when I’m weeding out my dates. I got a free pass essentially, because I was an A student who was just having a visibly hard time. He graded me in entirety, not on that one class. (I graduated magna cum laude in my major.) My dating weed out process is similar to weed out classes in college although expectations are chronologically harder and exceptions are overall harder to come by.

Weed Out Requirements

After 2 dates:

• Acceptable footwear & apparel
• Intelligent
• Pro gay rights
• Musically inclined
• Healthy diet
• Genuinely exudes kindness
• Likes to dance
• Athletic
• Makes me laugh

After 4 weeks:

• Mind-blowing sex
• Innately creative
• Fiscally uber responsible
• Goal-oriented
• Thinks I'm funny
• Loves to travel
• Cares about our planet
• References Mia's intelligence
• Has funny, open-minded friends

After 6 weeks:

• Supports my writing goals
• Honest & immediate communicator
• Has exhibited high levels of patience
• Gives & receives feedback
• Makes an effort to get to know my friends
• Consistently aware of & actively working on his issues
• Lives freely
• Loves openly

The list seems reasonable. Creative people usually dance. Good dancers have great sex. People who want to travel and save their scrilla are often goal-oriented. And so on. But it’s actually not an easy combination to find. Just 17% of guys I date make it past the two-date mark and only 7% make it beyond week cuatro. A slim 6% make it beyond week 6; but I only end up calling 5% my boyfriend. If there were a 5% chance of rain, would you pull out your Pucci rainboots? Not a chance.

At this point, the Rams have a better chance of winning the Superbowl than a dude does of becoming my boyfriend. 

I recently became obsessed with analyzing these weed out requirements with the dude I'm dating and wondering: If he's super strong in super important requirements (communication, patience, intelligence) can others be his zoology classes? In my attempt to weigh their importance, I started adding things: must love Mia, must periodically attend yoga, must live in a city and deal with all of my crazy lists and scheduling. Must snuggle on demand. Must be a bit more gentle but not too gentle just the perfect amount of gentle. Must wear luon, know my love language, visit my store, pretend I'm making sense. Must, must, must, must, must…He estimated I spoke 80% of the six hours we spent together discussing this.

He is magically patient.

I exhausted myself; but eventually, I answered my question. I’m hoping when I become as old as my zoology professor, a weed out exception won’t be such a dramatic, draining process.  But it probably will.

Emma Dinzebach

Last weekend several people hoping for some witty dude-centric anecdote asked who I was dating. I thought for a minute, choosing my words carefully, then calmly said, "Yes, but it's quite new and I'm not sure I can speak on it yet." They looked at me, heads tilted and wide-eyed, not believing that there is anything won't blab about, especially when it comes to the opposite sex. "Nothing?" asked my cousin. "Um, not any particularly exciting. I mean, I can tell you what he does and whatever," I replied risking disappointing a strong member of my fan base. Not that I couldn't think of several things perfectly provocative, but this time is different.

Famous. Last. Words.

Different not because the relationship is different - although possibly - but really because I am different. Not like dramatically different. I'm still the same semi-spaz, ego raging out of control to my girlfriends something along the lines, "I don't have to spend my time him! Effing hell. Doesn't he know I'm busy. And there are millions, literally millions, of men out there. Millions!" and blah, blah, blah. Then I'd run that racket for a while, rant about it on my cute little blog, and so on until found a suitable replacement and was distracted by some other dealbreaker from some other dude.  That was the formula: get excited, hand the baton to my ego, channel Lily Allen and next. Oh it's a total formula for failure if you are trying to actually date someone, but if you are trying not to date someone, it's perfectly brilliant.

Perfectly brilliant.

Unfortunately, I'm going to have to pause that formula because as it turns out, I'm evolving at some abnormal rate for a 5'3 girl called Wolf. Wolfie. Wolfesse. And the Evolution of Wof extends to dating. So a few days ago, I was having a semi-regressive but blissful moment of monumental arrogance and sat down to tell the world that guys are idiots. That I'm totally right about X, Y and Z. I mean, duh. Plus I'm smarter, more fun, a better dancer and have "so much more self-awareness it's literally nauseating!" than... I stopped typing. Someone somewhere shouted, "Cut!" and confusion set it. I looked around.

I thought I was directing this shit?

See I have this idea that every guy I date should know exactly what to do with me as I've borderline dedicated an entire website to it complete with dealbreakers and check lists and whatever else I write on this stupid blog. Dating me should be a cakewalk. Easy breezy. It's all here; just read, respond, repeat. It's so easy! They are so lucky! If I had detailed instructions like this, I would be golden. (Except I'd still knob it up because I'm obsessed with breaking rules.)  Wait, is everyone getting this? Read, respond, repeat. I couldn't have made it easier if I cooed airplane noises and fed it to them on a silver spoon. Except during my pause (see above), everything felt a bit passe: Am I still complaining about this? Passive aggressive blogging, blah, blah...it's so played out. If I'm evolving at such a rapid rate, I should by now be direct. I'm nothing if not direct.

So I picked up the telephone.

Emma Dinzebach

So I'm a bit a of a spaz... or so they say. Partially due to the abnormally high amount energy I was born with and partially due to being a neurotic Virgo. Plus I think that the more you work out the more endorphins you release and the more prone you are to being a spaz; or that's a complete Type A excuse. So what they say is true. I once declared that I wasn't going to be a spaz anymore: wasn't going to carry on and on about inconsequential life events, dramatizing X and exaggerating Y at the drop of a dime. My friend Anthony looked at me like I was a crazy person and said, without hesitation:


See, "totally hot." And furthermore, if I'm laid back and calm, then I'm actually not me. This planet certainly does not need another boring calm person. (It actually doesn't even need another person. Not. Even. One.) Some circumstances make me more spastic than others. Like this one dude I know makes me a total and complete neurotic, controlling spaz attack to the point where I honestly had to cut off contact with him because I thought I might for real explode. He kept telling me to "relax." In that circumstance I actually did need to relax, but when he said it he sounded like my father who used to say, "Come on. RE-LAX." to me when I was upset when I was little, which made me even more upset.

Word from the wise: If someone is in a tizzy over something - whatever it is - the last thing they want to hear is "relax." That has never worked to relax someone in the history of the word relax. Never.

Something that has made me learn to chill is discovering that whatever meaning I put on something isn't actually real. It's my perspective. It's meaning I made up. So, for example, if I say to my tailor, "I think I gained weight since I bought these jeans." And he replies, "Well, then just eat less and go running." That does not mean that he is agreeing that I'm fat and need to lose weight. It doesn't mean anything actually. Nothing. I can spend the rest of the day spazzing out over being fat, or I can choose not to attach meaning on it and move on with my day.

I actually do need to lose five pounds though.

While I've accepted my fate as fairly high strung and borderline crazy, I've learned that in directing my spaz-energy to things I love to do - write, flirt, dance, shop, have sex, run - I create space to chill. But who the hell wants to chill when you could be doing all of things you love with fervor and zest? That's what I still don't get about learning to chill.

Emma Dinzebach

Last week I wrote something called "Recycling Ways of Letting Go." In absence of actually being ready to "let go," I couldn't bring myself to post it. (Um, yes there are some things that even I don't feel comfortable prematurely exposing.) So I stepped back and prepared to practice the proverbial art of letting go. Normally, when I'm in letting-go mode I hold my head up high and march forward without looking back. Forward I find distractions to lift my discomfort and divert my attention. Eventually, the sadness fades without me even feeling the sadness at all. This method has gotten me by for years.

My method didn't feel quite right last week. If I distract myself from my feelings, then I appear invulnerable and possessing some abnormal strength. Several people have said it comes off like I never really cared about the person, place or thing I'm letting go because I'm so quickly on to the next one: the next city, the next assignment, the next relationship, and so on. It's part my "quick start" nature which allows me to create heightened excitement around something new and different. In general, quick starts have an easier time letting go.




But this quick start (eh, hem, moi) is practicing leading by example. In this case, the example being that it is okay to be sad or upset or disappointed. Sometimes you don't get what you want even if you are normally really, really, really good and doing so. It's okay to need a little time to process the word "no." During my processing time (one week that felt ten million years long), it occurred to me that the whole term "letting go" annoys me. How long do we have to let go before we really just need to get over it? The whole saying "let go" sounds like something really hard and awful that requires divine strength and intricate networks of support. I was over letting go.

Later in the week, I let go of "let go."  Those two stupid words to be forever replaced with "creating space." After all, moving away from one thing allows space in your life (and in your brain) for something else. Friday evening my on-again, off-again object of adoration invited me out, and while it could have resulted in a much more stimulating way to fill my new found space, I kind of liked the space. Just for a little while - even just one night - I wanted the space to stay. 

Saturday, with the space unoccupied and well-rested, the universe responded by providing me with something awesome that I might not have been prepared to receive if I hadn't the space. With the space, I got the awesome. Not the potential-to-create-orgasm kind of awesome, but awesome nonetheless.

Emma Dinzebach

So I'm fully using this blog as my personal forum to vent. After all, it's mine, and I can do whatever I want with it. Vent I will. I don't like any of my dates. I have had three dates in four days, and at the end of it I wanted to put something sharp and preferably red hot into my eye socket...and twist.

Date #1: Heart. Literally, there are days I wake up and think I might actually be in love with him. And it could be a beautiful thing except that he's not on board. He's not even straddling the fence. Nope. This dude is standing on the other side of the fence staring adorably and adoringly into my eyes. Still, the fence divides. I can only pass him tools - ladders and ropes and a damn chainsaw - so many times before I have no more tools to give. "Figure your own fucking way over the fence!" I want to scream. But I don't. I go to Home Depot. 

Date #2: Could have sufficed, especially in light of my silent rejection from Date #1, but he doesn't work out enough and I need to wake up next to something I long to lick. He also talks in arrogant excess. He once asked me if I was a "student of Shakespeare" and some vomit came into my mouth. Now I appreciate that he gets my Macbeth reference, and I like that we share an affinity for literature; but he doesn't use it with witty conviction. He just says it... and every other thought in his mind on and on on. He needs to take that energy to the gym.

Date #3: Doesn't even deserve this blog because he is so boring and dull that I would have more fun in a coma than on a date with him.

So the normal me would not worry about it because it's not really hard for me to find dates. But in light of the current situation with Date #1, I need these other stupid dates to distract me. No, I can't distract myself. Yes, I tried. Not any amount of working out or shopping or writing or reading or even Cirque du Soleil can distract me. Who even am I? I need to snap out of this. Suffering is not a good look for me. It gives me wrinkles and makes me feel uncomfortable, powerless, and all around horrible about something that I'm inherently really good at. Stupid suffering.

Some days I really don't know how Jesus did it on that cross.

Emma Dinzebach

At first I wrote a list of all the things I was thankful for in the past year - a summary of blessings bestowed on the 27-year-old version of myself. I thought rather than focusing on what I do not have, I'd start the 28 off with a concrete foundation solidified by blabbing it to y'all. When I wrote it all out, I realized that it might make readers gag or fall asleep or both. Wouldn't you so much rather read about how between all the shopping and writing and friend making and downward facing dog, I am continually emotionally tormented? Um, obvi.


This is so ridiculous, I should be embarrassed. So I told my current "emotional tormentor" that for my birthday I wanted a two-part date that included: A ) us having a birthday cocktail and B ) during the birthday cocktail scheduling a follow-up dinner date. He half agreed because he has some weird issues right now where he claims he is "not going out with girls" or something. (No, he's not gay. Yes, he likes me. There was mention of fear of commitment. Fear of commitment is a bullshit fear. You are committed to paying your rent, going to work, walking your dog. You are committed to your friends, mother, laundry guy, baseball team, lucky boxers, lucky stilettos, Entourage. You actually do not have a fear of commitment. You likely have raging insecurity issues and actually fear of abandonment, but I digress.)

From what I know he really isn't currently going out with girls; but he has to be sleeping with somebody right? So I pulled out my favorite vintage Dior Chapeaux detective hat and did a little poking around just to find out he isn't sleeping with somebody - at least not the same person consistently. That's odd, I thought. And he sure has hell isn't sleeping with me. Currently, we have been on 1 1/2 dates over an unacceptably long period of time. According to my detective calculations, at this rate we can sleep with each other sometime around mid-February.


For the love of god, can we hurry this along already? I mean whatever! I get it.  I'm intense, intimidating, yadda, yadda, yadda, but seriously? Get the hell over it and quit being such a... (I might make a nasty necrophilia reference, but I would never say the "P" word.) Thus, my unprecedented patience is in it's final act. The alternate ending being that I just get over it because it would be an absolute travesty to mankind for me to die of sexual deprivation. Although it would make for an excellent film.

In the filthy meantime, do I take Ms. Yessica's advice and drink from my tired trough? After all, I was president of my high school Planet Patrol because I am best in the world at recycling.

Emma Dinzebach

People aren't usually comfortable saying my last name out loud. They feel nervous they might mess it up, and odds are they will. It's pronounced exactly how it's spelled, but the "z" is scary and the "bach" is unfamiliar and no one understands why it's missing a second "n." Because isn't it Dinzenbach? No, it's not.

There are a few people who defy fear and just say it. My friend Josh from college. My middle school soccer coach. Leo's dad. Lin the laundry man. Both brothers Martignetti. And now this guy I just met whose name is not Alejandro.

But I wanted it to be Alejandro and asked him if I could call him Alejandro, which is totally bizarre and borderline incorrigible; but for some reason (probably the eyes), he conceded. I was too lazy to type Alejandro, and while I could have entered his real, slightly shorter, name, I wrote Aj. With a small "J" since it's not actually an initial name.

I wondered if Aj was going to call me, but not for long because I was extremely sick and consequently extremely busy. So when I looked at my phone and saw a call from Aj, I thought Who the hell is Aj? AJ Otto. AJ Krane. No, that's JJ Krane. AJ my seven-year-old cousin. He has a cell phone? I call my best friend AJ. Did I change her number in my phone for some reason? Well, the Aj didn't leave a message, so I couldn't actually be sure. And I have to frequently delete all of my text messages for another reason not actually worthy of blogging about (and if I sound at all bitter, it's because I am); so I couldn't use previous sms communication. Now had he left a message... So I just called the person back. Well what do you know? It was Alejandro who name is not Alejandro but is apparently Aj, which cracks me up. I have him saved as Aj. He has me saved as Emma Dinzebach. He talked a lot more than most guys do on the phone. Then again I've only recently been talking to this one guy who makes me so nervous that I don't shut up.

Imagine that.  

That's pretty much all because it was just a phone conversation during which I looked a check my grandmother gave me for my birthday (which is on Monday, August 30th) and noticed my dad's name has been added to her checking account. And then I wondered Can he hook me up? And then I wondered What will my dad get me for my birthday? I should go online and pick something out. Aj was talking while I was shopping for thigh high boots. Since I'm a sort-of-psychologist, I quickly recognized that the situation had become weirdly Freudian and said, "You should go!"

And he said something like, "We haven't known each other long enough for you to tell me what to do." (Which in all honesty sounds like something I would say.) Then chided, "What did you think, I was so enthralled by our conversation I was going to forget all together to go to my friend's?" I didn't know what to say to that because A. He stole my "Don't tell me what to do." line, and everyone knows that whoever uses that line first gets to keep it & B. Had he worded it differently (i.e. taken out the "what did you think"), it could have been rather sweet. So I said, "I'm sorry." He laughed. I wasn't sure why.

Then I realized I was totally not being myself because I'm not sorry for anything except that I said I'm sorry and that the pair of boots I really want are $1,700, and my dad will not buy those for me in this lifetime. Too many Canadians are making me sorry, which is disguising itself in consideration. I'm not sure it's doing me much good because I'm not getting reciprocated consideration. Oh, but from a different situation entirely.

Now I've certainly said too much.

Imagine that.

Emma Dinzebach

Spending so much time in the Northwest reinforced my decisive disdain for hippies. The bottoms of their jeans are dirty. Their children are barefoot hiking on trails with sharp rocks and slimy slugs because being one with nature is more important than child safety. (And I'm not sure making feather hats on the street corner has great benefits.) Their earth-loving projection dissolves instantly when you spot a dirty pack of Marlboro lights peaking out of their Patagonia hip packs. Are they really homeless or do they just dress like homeless people? For their part, they actually know nothing about pop music because their musical evolution, like their brain functionality, is really slow. They are still listening to Bob Marley. They got fucking lucky with Bob Marley.

Hippies idea of fun is driving an rusty RV from Alaska to Argentina...or String Cheese at Red Rocks.
Hipsters idea of fun is Emmaboda...or Empire of the Sun at Henry Fonda.

Hipsters jeans are clean because they don't touch the ground and need to be rewashed to reshrink. Most have homes but eat like homeless people. See also: anorexia. How the hell else do they fit into those Levis 510s? As it turns out, sitting around Ruby's all day doesn't actually pay well, so they have to take the subway to Williamsburg. (But don't think they are happy about it.) Hipsters say they detest that Billionaire song by Travie McCoy, but when it comes on, they know the words. Their musical knowledge is actually pretty vast, but as soon as pop songs turn poppy, Potrero Hillsters turn their back on them. Poor MGMT. Poor Chromeo. If Kid Cudi weren't so emotionally tormented, he'd be long gone. They do have an eye for emerging music and a somewhat wide variety that includes underground hip hop, electronica, old school rap, old school country, punk. They are still listening to the Ramones.
They got fucking lucky with Joey Ramone.

Hipsters heart cocaine. Hipsters wear Jeffrey Campbell.

After the Taliban, the SPLA and probably Hezbollah, homeless hippies are the worst human beings on earth. They smoke cigarettes, beg for weed, and make their poor pups homeless too. My friend saw one buying red bull with food stamps. True story. But if they buy regular food, they will compost. Hipsters are way too cool to get food stamps. Plus, they don't need food, remember.

Hippies are racist. Hippies [still] wear hemp.

Model hipsters make me want to crawl into a hole and die because for something so pretty their vintage Dior silk blouse is wrinkled and their zipper combat boots could use a trip to the Sullivan Street shoe saint. Hipsters with accents easily date said models. Then the club promoters love them because they are dating models and the clubs love the promoters because they tote models. And while they raise a clubs "cool factor," they don't bring in dough because neither the hipster nor the hipster model has many money. Plus, they are horrible tippers.

Hipsters hip bones dig into you too much when you're hooking up.

But I'd choose a hipster because they live in cities, so they are forced to cooperate with other human beings. They own a suit. They will take you to Morimoto (and maybe even eat with you) on your birthday. And even if they are poor, they don't talk about it because, unlike hippies, they know that discussing their financial state is unattractive.

Plus, hippies dreads kind of smell like spoiled sour cream when you're hooking up.

Or so I've heard.

Emma Dinzebach

The reason the situation warranted a hero lost any trace of importance the second the hero walked in the room. What's important is the effect said hero had in changing the direction of my evening and gracing my afternoon pilates class with Nora Roberts-worthy flashbacks. Flashbacks usually fade overtime. Flashbacks are supposed to fade over time. But the more time that passes, the stronger his effect.

I stared down at my suitcase, trying to remember where I put my pajamas. My cheeks burned from embarrassment and I tried not to look up. The spots on my face where tears had escaped, now felt dry and tight. Emma Dilemma, I thought. From the corner of my eye I saw him taking off his shirt, and even though I told myself not to stare, to look straight, my head turned. I gasped quietly then quickly turned back to my bag. Do not think about it. Do not think about it. Do not even think about it, I told myself, but my head turned again. His skin stretched over his chest, arms, abs like someone had packaged neatly defined sets of muscles in smooth, flawless skin. His stomach reminded me of the faceless guy on the 2(x)ist boxer brief packages at Bloomingdale's. I called on every ounce of self control not to reach out and touch him. Even in the most desirable of situations, I can normally keep it together. His heroic gesture had changed my emotions from confused and distraught to relieved and obliged, and that night I could not keep my movie-worthy desire in tact. He stepped towards me and my heart started to race. I pictured myself the way he found me babbling about having to go and wiping my eyes. He had pushed the sticky hair out of my face, and told me that it was all okay. I needn't worry. Some sleep would make me feel better and in the morning he would make certain everything worked out. The only other words that came out of my mouth were various forms of "Thank You," and when he looked over his shoulder at me, I thought I saw a hint of regret in his piercing blue eyes. What did he get himself into? 

But now his eyes looked different, and I with all of my mental might I attempted to repress every naked thought. But I failed. I am totally going to have sex with this guy, I thought. I stared back at my sleepwear. I probably won't need you. In the bathroom I changed my clothes and looked at myself in the mirror. Mascara was smeared under my eyes, but for the most part I still looked presentable. I adjusted my tank top, put on some chapstick and took a deep breath. You're tired. Just go to sleep and if you still feel this way, you can get naked with him in the morning. 

When we climbed into bed I stared at the ceiling. "I'm sorry again...that you're so distraught. You'll feel better in the morning. Goodnight," he said and rolled over. I glanced over at the shadows on his back creating mini mountain ranges. In my mind, I could hear my yoga instructor saying, "Focus on your breathing. Just you and your breath." I looked back to the ceiling. When he turned over onto his back, I wanted to look over to see if his eyes were open, but before I had the chance, he turned to face me. Like a magnet, I rolled over to face him and reached out to touch his chest. We stared at each other through the darkness. My hand was burning on his chest. Just a few more moments went by before we pounced on each other biting and clawing like to feral animals. My arms and legs wrapped around him while his mouth went up my neck, down my shoulder and around back to lips. I couldn't decide which part of him to touch first. I needed more hands. I needed all of his body touching all of my body. Like he read my mind, he stripped off my clothes and touched every inch of my skin. My eyes squeezed tightly together, and a small, desperate noise escaped from my mouth as he put himself inside of me. We rolled around the bed completely unaware of anything around us until finally, eventually we fell asleep.

In the morning, I thought I'd imagined the whole thing until I felt his arms pulling me into him. I looked in his eyes, wondering who is this guy was who heroically led me to tranquility. Then a small wave of panic took hold of me. Yeah, who is he? Where did he come from? He's basically a stranger. I basically had wonderful, mind-altering sex with a complete stranger. How do I know if he is really nice or maybe he is going to kidnap me and sell me? Am I too old to be sold? Maybe he won't even get that much money for me? Like he could sense my mind racing, he tilted his head and pressed his lips against mine. I was too tired and emotionally hungover to really process my concerns, so I found a spot in his arms and for a little while fell back asleep.

He didn't sell me.

Emma Dinzebach

It is very difficult for an artist to create in the absence of pain of sadness. Nobody wants to look at paintings popping up daisies in rays of sun day after day. Characters become dimensional in light of struggle, challenge, heartbreak and consequently we long to see similar (or grossly different) dynamic dramatizations unfold. Because I consider myself somewhat of an artist - a relatively new and externally encouraged insight - I require pain and suffering? Apparently so. For me, pain and suffering is the hardest part of being an artist. I'm just not that sad. Despite what you all may think, I'm not even that emotionally tormented. The biggest barrier to my creative capabilities is that I'm a healthy, well-adjusted individual. Gag.

Do One Thing A Day That Scares You

Thankfully, I woke up crabby and sad today and finally have a chance to paint in colors other than pink and yellow. Partially because I'm having some hormonal fluctuations, but largely due to the multitude of goodbyes I've said lately. Let me step back. I work in an awesome, upbeat, borderline surreal environment surrounded by people who are smart, dance how they feel, and elevate each other to greatness. Every morning when I look through my downward facing dog, I feel elated that I get to share my practice, my life, my spirit with them...and vice versa. In an ongoing effort to develop to our potential, we move around a lot. Saying goodbye is prelude to growth. But in the past few months, the dancefloor evacuations have been getting a little out of control. While I love my new sweat-once-a-day-sisters, eery, lonely silences remind me that something is missing and create small pangs of emptiness. The new people don't know that "Umbrella" is [still] my "jam." They don't know about "jams."

And the feeling extends. Some days I desperately miss the long days on the farm descending the imaginary stairs behind the bar and arguing over my sick (and uncharacteristic) devotion to Mayor Bloomberg. Other days I want to crawl back to my old life where I read the entire paper, wrote something and walked my Turkey, waiting for everyone else to get off of work. And then there are the days that I stare at the ceiling repressing the montage of movie-worthy moments - reminding myself that I can only go forward. Maybe I am that emotionally tormented, but in those tormented moments, even though I have to drag myself to the computer and force my butt to stay in the chair, that the windows open, and I write.

So Beas, Bon Bon, Blake and Genny - I should have said this a long time ago - but you have always been the rays of sunshine that make my life so poppy and pleasant. And now, thank you for creating the sad space in which I can create.

I heart NYC. It's the best place on earth with the smartest, coolest people.

But anyway, moving on. So I met this guy.  He's cool. It seems like we have some things in common. I mean, we both like to travel, go on health kicks and it's fair to say that if given a kosher opportunity, we would rip each other's clothes off. Like naked. New York Yankees owner George Steinbrenner's  says to "Always surround yourself with people a lot smarter than you." As difficult as it is for me (there are a lot of dumb people in the world), I subscribe to this. I always date guys who can elevate my intelligence. Although it's too soon to properly assess, I think I might be smarter than him. The other potential issue is that he's a banker, and I've already dated fifteen bankers and sworn them off many times over. And the final issue, he has a girlfriend. And she's pretty awesome.

To the naked eye, this appears a situation ridden with both pointlessness and hopelessness. My intuition is borderline impeccable, and personally, I don't see a lasting marriage in their future. But I barely know them, so that's probably not a fair assessment. I don't have a lot to work with here people, and I'm not a homewrecker. I once walked in on my boyfriend in bed with a girl. She had a large forehead, so we used to call her Fivehead Courtney, which was basically a compliment compared to the things we called him. After that I spiraled into a situational depression, lived off of Starbucks rice crispie treats and lost ten pounds. I do not have ten pounds to lose. Five, yes. Ten, not so much. But I digress. Despite awesome girlfriend, questionable level of intelligence and American Psycho tendencies, I have a hunch. Due to said hunch, I extended a friendship invite. Being my friend is easy; it's getting to the friend level that takes work. To make it in my inner circle, you have to get me. To get me, you have to be wicked clever, love dancing, read, know yourself and most importantly, never wear Crocs. Don't even look at a pair of Crocs. I am not certain that the banker dude is up for the task. It's a tall order but a very special gesture based on nothing more than a hunch.


Emma Dinzebach

Recently I called it quits with great guy - funny, good in bed, nice family, even nicer beach house, full head of hair. We rather liked one another actually. His more mellow nature complimented my high strung neurosis and provided me space for much needed tranquility. I liked the way he smelled. We had a peaceful, sublime relationship, but the more intimate we became, the louder the nagging voice inside of me said "no." 

Then I sat down to write an article refuting Lisa Gottlieb's hair-brained case for "settling" for "Mr. Good Enough" when I realized I am the woman she argues should "settle." With my break-up speech already prepared, break-up playlist compiled and hair appointment set, suddenly, I didn't know what to do. I started a list of pros and cons (which never works for me, but I just tried it anyway), and the pros outweighed the cons but didn't outweigh my intuition. A couple glasses of champagne later I called him and said, "You are absolutely stellar in every single way, but I need to focus on my writing." Who breaks up with someone so wonderful? I wondered. Am I going to regret this? Am I a total moron? I reminded myself that actually I do need to focus on my writing, this isn't the right time for me and I don't have surplus energy to invest in this relationship right now.

I finished the champagne but didn't cry with regret. I politely but curtly responded to the email he sent saying that he missed me and ignored the text messages. Relieved that I could stay home and write rather than going out to dinner, I made a plan to eat less and lose five pounds. Sure, I missed snuggling and all that; but honestly, I'm too busy to snuggle. If you know me, you know I'm always focused on or worrying over some dude. What should I text back? Why isn't he making a plan? What to do? Who to be? How long to wait? Blah, blah, blah. For once in my life I'm really focused on something besides the guy I'm dating even if, ironically, said focus is every guy I've ever dated.

Dealing with so many dudes for so long, and finally I've picked up their envious ability to compartmentalize.

Now I meet a guy and find myself making disclaimers like, "I'm moving soon." or "I'm so busy I barely have time to shave my legs." and lots of other hints that translate: I don't want a boyfriend. When I'm at work, I don't even think about opposite sex situations that formerly had my head spinning. Unless they walk in the door to pay me a visit (and they do), they are out of sight, out of mind. Whether writing my retail report, practicing yoga, or cooking dinner, I focus on the task at hand rather than letting my mind wander to the currently annoying guy in my rotation. See also: live in the moment. This must be how guys operate. I'm becoming that which I write about...EXCEPT

I house a loudly ticking biological clock that has me looking up posh baby strollers and miniature Deisel jeans. When I see a baby I circle it like a vulture does a dead deer. Kids playing in the playground make sublimely happy and smiley. I have baby fever. No time to snuggle, but my body wants to make a baby.

When the proverbial ticking becomes louder than the voice screaming "no," then what do you do? Now that seems like the only case for settling. You can only pray that the two miraculously coincide. Otherwise, you settle for the beach house. It's no yacht, but it will have to do.

Emma Dinzebach

"I think this dude at the gym is stalking me," I whispered into the phone to Pookie while I sweated it out on the elliptical yesterday afternoon.

"No he's not," she said back and went on about those weird people who do a week's worth of grocery shopping at their corner deli. "I mean, who wants to spend ten dollars on a jar of pasta sauce?"

"Agreed. But I'm telling you we are the only two people around and he is choosing to do his squats and shit right next to me. It's annoying."

"If you say so. I have to go. A guy with his arms full of Cliff bars and wasabi peas is trying to snatch my place in line," she said.

For the record, I was only on the phone because the gym was so empty. I looked over and said dude had backed off a bit and gravitated toward the weights by the mirror. Quickly, I got off the machine and went over to the mats to do my nerdy girl sit ups and such. From the balance ball, I eyed said potential gym stalker. He had light brown, curly hair and nice legs. I'm a sucker for guys with on-the-skinny-side legs. He was attractive, and had I been in another state of mind, the whole afternoon could have turned out quite differently. I moved from the ball to the mat with my five pound weights do some core/arm combo stuff that I basically made up.

Side fact: the backsides of my forearms are very scratched because Friday afternoon I decided to take a run through the woods. Normally, I'm quite attentive to the rocks and sticks and such, but on that particular afternoon I was distracted thinking of this shirt I wished I had bought. Mid thought, I tripped over a rock and went Superman flying forward. Put your head up! I told myself before landing on my arms and skidding through the rock and mud like I was stealing home plate. My heart stopped. I stood up. Simultaneously, I caught my breadth and assessed my wounds. My arms were cut and bleeding with rock, mud and sparkles stuck inside the blood. The sparkles are a mystery. My stomach, shorts and upper thighs were covered in dirt and a thick mud/rock burn. I touched my face. Unscathed. Should I continue on my run. I'm okay. Nothing is broken. Does a person in this situation continue running? I asked myself. I looked around, still stunned. In the hundreds of times I had run through these woods, I had never so much as tripped. No you don't keep running! You are not that hard core, I told myself and walked up the cut through to my house. I looked down at my muddy but injury-free legs, dirty shirt, bloody arms - all covered in rocks and sparkles. Weird. At home, took a shower, poured hydrogen peroxide on my cuts, searched for the pain relief Neosporin, and drank a glass of wine.

So yesterday afternoon, at the gym, my scabby arms were definitely visible as I moved in every which direction combining awkward pilates moves with vinyasa flows. But the guy kept getting closer to me. Several of the same machine is places in several spots near the mats, but he went on the one right next to me. My music stopped and I looked down to see Cricket calling, "Hey dude, let me call you back in five minutes. I'm just about to leave the gym," I said and went back to my downward facing dog.

"Alkdoiahoidfoijaishodihf  saidohf akhdfoi oidfh?" said the guy. I pulled one earphone from my ear and said, "Excuse me?"

"Ahoidfhoiaskjdf sdoifj isodmkfoiahsdofuihdspo?" he said.

"I'm sorry, what?" I said pulling the other earphone out and wondering what on earth he was saying.

"Asoidfm oijfmoisdkmfoiskdm odimsdfoisdkjfm?" he repeated. I stared at him, confused.

"Oh you don't speak Arabic?" he said.

"Um, no. No," I replied, so confused.

"I heard you speak in Arabic, so I thought you were Lebanese," he said. I stared blankly. When did he hear me speak in Arabic? I wondered. "And it sounded like listening to Arabic music."

"Dude, this is Rhianna."

"You must get that a lot though...people thinking you are Lebanese." This guy is attractive, I thought, so why on earth is he sabotaging himself? Then I just felt bad for him.

"Well, people think I'm anything that has dark features - Spanish, Lebanese, Turkish..."

"Yeah, I figured," he said. He stood there smiling at me, like he had somehow been successful. He's honestly hitting on me? I'm so confused, I thought. Most confusing pick up line. Ever. I wanted to turn and walk away, but I felt compelled to talk.

"Yeah, but I'm just American...well, Italian in the skin and eyes, but mainly American. Er, um, have a good workout," I said and walked away.

"I thought you spoke Arabic? Who says that?"  I shrieked into the phone to my brother on my walk home.

"No one, Emma. No one says that to anyone. No one says that to anyone but you."

"Go figure."

Emma Dinzebach

Maybe I’m a presumptuous snob beyond repair, but I suspect that women who don’t have many dates rarely cancel dates. They welcome the opportunity to get to know someone new…a “potential.” Perhaps their date nights are so rare that they don’t even have a pre-date routine. Maybe they just put on some lipstick, smile and do their best. I almost envy these women…almost.

I, however, have a pre-date routine that would give Allen Iverson a run for his money. Gym, shower, Ting Tings (to remind me everything in life is done for fun), Lily Allen (to remind me that guys are mainly idiots), Kanye West (to inflate my ego). I sip champagne while I fuss over my make-up applique. For at least forty five minutes I pour over my wardrobe,chatting on speaker with my team of consults on the following subjects:How late is acceptable? (Because I will be late.) What not to ask? Whatnot to wear? What is an acceptable excuse to leave early? Usually, I go back to outfit number one, take the Velcro rollers out of my hair and listen to Music is My Hot Hot Sex and finish my drink.

Or I cancel. While some women might think of this as missing their“chance,” I know another “chance” is scheduled a few days from now. No rush. No stress. No worries. If my pre-date routine is interrupted -even if from my fatigue - I am not a happy camper. No one wants to date a disgruntled dilemma lover.

Cause to cancel often stems from poor scheduling on my part. I normally don’t schedule first dates on weekends, but sometimes I am so busy a Friday night is my only option. Day of I realize I do not want to be seated across from Mister What’s-His-Face on Friday night while the people surrounding me are cocktailing with their friends. I do not want to be restricted to first date attire. I want to wear jeans or a spandex mini dress. I want the dancefloor.

Writing about men and dates all day can leave me drained of the mental energy a first date consumes. Other times I just I don’t feel like sharing my evening; so I wiggle my pretty little way out of it.Sometimes I reschedule, but other times I don’t. Date canceling is a luxury only a prolific dater can afford. But is consistently canceling dates rude? It’s not like it’s the same person…although sometimes it is. Why the increase in cancellations? Am I lazy? Bored? Confused? Selfish? I used to think that as long as I was honest and nice about it, canceling was fine. Everyone has to cancel sometimes, and they don't know I've made this a bit of a habit. However, my cancellations have become ever more frequent leading me to believe that maybe I am just a spoiled rotten dater.

Originally posted for Daily Vogue on May 8, 2010 at http://thevoguecity.com/spoiled-rotten-dater

Emma Dinzebach

After years of self-analysis, I thought I pretty much knew everything about myself. I drink champagne, don't do laundry, hate changing clocks when the power goes out and might marry the dancefloor. Music is my boyfriend. Being bossy is my flaw. Cigarettes are the treat I give myself every now and again for being such an unusually healthy individual. I talk to myself incessantly - like full conversations. My dog is prettier than yours. No, seriously, she is. And I could stand to drop my ego every now and again. It's not all about me. In fact, it's not about me at all. 

"You are such a psycho when it comes to guys!" declared my best friend on the phone yesterday. "Such a psycho."

"Seriously, you're right. But they never know! Why do they never know?" I yelled into the phone. See also: spaz case. She went on to describe a situation we had in high school. I was obsessed with this guy, John Bosse. Oh, he fully knows now; and we're friends so it's fine that I write this. (Hi Bosse.) I don't know if it was his reversible Nautica jacket or his hunter green Chevy Blazer, but I thought he was sooooo cool. Plus he's pretty smart. Sometimes I thought he was a little bit mean to his mom, but other than that, I loved him. Hearted him. I even made up songs about him. And oh my god did I sing them. I drove past his house sometimes on my way home at night. Crazy behavior. Cray cray.

My aforementioned best friend went on to tell me that on Friday night, she saw this guy we knew in high school. His name is Connor. (Hi Connor.) "Oh my god, remember how I stole his shirt and used to smell it," I said.

"You are such a psycho when it comes to guys!" she said. "Such a psycho."

But, and there is a but, they really never know. (There must be some guy reading this thinking, Oh no, we know.) "Bosse said that it would have been really helpful in high school to know that you liked him," said my friend. Hold up. And there was the Saturday afternoon light bulb ladies and gents. I use distanced disinterest as a defense mechanism? Me? I didn't even know this about myself. Semi- recently, a guy and I decided not to see one another and during the conversation, I do remember him saying, "Of course you aren't going to say anything...because you're so strong." To which I replied, "No, I'm just not in the business of selling myself to dudes." Literary agents, yes. Dudes, no.

However, this creates quite the conundrum because I'm so self-assured and confident and yadda, yadda, yadda - saying everything I like and don't like and whatnot, that guys assume that if I like them, they will know. If my distanced disinterest causes them to believe otherwise, they cease pursuing me, assuming I'm not on board. This happens all the time bringing me to yet another thing I learned about myself this week... I am a tune changer. Tune. Changer. Changing my tune all the time as I'm, according to another friend, powered by something different everyday.

"Please explain," I said upon learning this information about myself.

"One day you're so inspired by your yoga instructor. The next day you're not working out anymore because you're being European. Then two days later you're onto the next athletic endeavor. Then you're planning your goals with your mom on your kitchen table. One day you're all about focusing on your book. Two days later, you're on a husband mission when last week you were diversifying your "friends with benefits."  But the good thing is that you always have something to keep you motivated...you know to inspire you."

"I'm a tune changer?" I asked.

"Yep. Always changing your tune. On the daily."

"Well, variety is the spice of life."

"And they say to diversify your assets."

"Don't put all your eggs in one basket."

"So what are you going to do?" she asked, referring to my current guy dilemma.

"It's so hard because I'm a sucker for guys who can dance. Sucker."

"Then you, my dear, need to be more forthcoming," she said, reiterating the former day's lesson.

"Never," I said decidedly. 

"You don't want to be forthcoming with guys in case the next day you change your little tune," she concluded. And she is right. What if the next day my tune changes? See also: I never like anyone. And I meet tons of guys all the time. Every. Single. Day. I'm easy to talk with. Guys like me. But I never like any of them for longer than ten minutes. Partially because I am a snob beyond repair and partially because, and this just in, I'm a tune changer who uses distance as a defense mechanism.

Who knew?

Emma Dinzebach

Dear Brian Moylan at Gawker AKA @BrianJMoylan:

First of all, I kind of love you. If I weren't sort of confused about your sexual orientation, I would lick your body. I might even lick it anyway because for years, I have been listing the annoying, unacceptable, assanine and asshole moves of guys I date and never thought to make them category specific, until today. The Nine Types of Text Messaging Monsters has reminded me that listing, while not acceptable behavior on dates, is a wonderful medium to gripe. For you, my dating specific offshoot:

The Nine Types of Text Messaging Monsters: Dating Edition

1. The emoticon user. Vomit just crept into my mouth at the very thought of it. NOTHING makes a man less attractive - not even braces - than a guy who writes "So we'll meet at 8 :-)"  No we won't meet at eight. We will meet never. And thankyouverymuch for ruining something that could have flourished into a torrid love affair. No smileys, sad faces, or that one with the zero in it. What is that supposed to be, a nose? The one with a letter "P" at the end. Are you sticking your tongue out at me? Um, gross. Gross. I was unsure if I wanted to date you in the first place and you attempt to convince me by sticking your slimey tongue out at me via text. Next.

2. The coward. A sadder version of the "never call," the coward might now have replaced texting with phone conversations in his life, but he has in regards to dating. If you were somehow lucky enough to attain my phone number, don't even think about texting me. TEXTING me? Srsly? Because I really want to go on a date with someone who can't even have a five minute phone conversation. I don't. I won't. Grow some balls. Pick up the phone.

3. One word wonder. Or is he just slow? So I was trying to organize a meeting time with a dude I dated a few times. My schedule is packed. See also: busy. I wrote: "How is 8?" He wrote: "Sure." SURE? Really? I could be spending this evening with my friends who I never see or my friend with benefits who I know I can at least have sex with at the end of the night. But I'm choosing to spend my valuable time with you, so do not reply to my texts with "sure" or "fine" or "ok" or "yes" or "good" or any of their one-word antonyms. It's rude. You're an asshole.

4. The premature sexter. We went on two dates. Don't tell me you wish you were "laying next to [my] naked body" because that makes me want to slit my eyeball open.

5. The non-responder. First and foremost, if someone you are interested in is not reponding to your text messages, then you should not go out with them. End. But, there are a camp who believe in taking an abnormally long time to respond so they can pretend they are busy. Listen buddy, I guarantee my father is busier than you and texts much more slowly, yet he manages to text me back in a timely fashion on the daily. Of course, timing should be considered. I often cannot check my phone for several hours, but as soon as I can, I respond to everyone immediately. That is, if I have any text messages. Some days I'm less popular.

6. The overtexter. I feel a little bad for this guy because he obviously likes you but hasn't grasped the idea that less is more. Midday he texts "How is your day going?" End of day he writes "Headed to bed now. Sweet dreams." After dinner he writes "What did you have for dinner? I hope it was yummy!" Srsly? Act like you have something to do all day besides think of me. Sure at a point when you have both reached the phase where you must stay in constant communication and the overtexts are reciprocated, it's different. But until then, get out my grill.

7. Exclamation marks. Excessive exclamation marks (and really any in my opinion) are unnecessary and annoying. They tell me that you need to widen your emotional vocabulary. I get it. You're excited. I might even be excited too, but use your brain for five minutes and think of a different way to express yourself.

8. Bored texter. Just because you were bored or sad or lonely sitting around scrolling through your phone doesn't mean you need to text me. We went on two dates like six months ago. Twas not a match made. Read a book.

9. Lonely texter. We aren't dating, so if you feel lonely, rather than sitting around texting your ex-girlfriend (eh hem, moi) maybe take an hour to do some self-discovery. Write in a journal. Think about the reasons you are alone. Maybe it's because you talk about yourself and your deals all the time. Maybe it's because you're a neurotic freak. Maybe it's your temper, your t-shirt tan line, your hairy back or your Tevas. It's something; and you aren't going to figure it out by texting your ex "Just thinking about you." Get a life.

So I hope these help...in regards to dating. And I take back the licking offer. I just got really grossed out by the opposite sex.

Love always,
Emma

Emma Dinzebach

So many of my recent columns have focused tirelessly on break-ups, how to get rid of guys, when to rip off the band aid and march on and soon. Before this string of sad columns centered around what can only rightly be called “the end,” there was “the beginning.” Hell, I nearly forgot about the blissful, bashful, blithering beginning…until now.

I have a crush - just a little crush but a crush nonetheless. It’s been so long since I’ve had a legitimate crush who wasn’t an ego-serving maniac boasting about his latest “deal” or a dowdy sneak manipulating me into giving out my number, I can hardly remember what to do. Yes, you read correctly. I’m not sure what to do. Normally I’m relentlessly pursued before the crush, on my part, develops. Rarely, have I developed a bit of a friendship before said courting and in the present case, I can’t tell that courting has even ensued. I can’t tell anything actually because I can’t get a read on the situation. I'm too nervous to properly assess.

Now I’m all “What do I do?” My normally outgoing flirtation has been muted by my new found constant and painful awareness of my every move. Did he just see me fussing over my hair? Was that joke was totally moronic? Is he flirting with me or does he act like this with everyone? I think I said 'like' like ten times? I’m so self-aware (see also: self-conscious) that I can’t even tell if I’m flirting at all. Maybe he doesn’t even know I fancy him. How do I know if he knows?

My instinct is to tactfully plan out how to obtain said crush without drawing attention to my plan - to place myself in the right place at the right time, to do some research into his friends, interests, etc. You know, strategize; and I'm good at strategizing. This time, however, my proverbial stomach butterflies and artless categorization of thoughts has rendered me unable to fathom a good strategy. I am being reserved! Not because I am trying to play hard to get but because I am not playing anything at all. Who am I? I don’t even know this girl inside of me.

Thus I have decided, almost unconsciously really, to repress my relentless daydreams of rolling around half-naked in the sand with my crush and let it grow organically. There is no sand around here anyway. Does that mean I’m being recreant? Probably. But maybe letting go of my city dating neurosis and giving into my rarely seen shy side (you didn't even know it existed, did you?) means the universe's synergy will decide for me. Plus the crush faze is so fun, I have no desire to move it along. Nope. No desire at all…

…until the ultra competitive me dominates the new shy, reserved me and I cannot live another day until I prove I can, and will, obtain that which I desire. Then I’ll write a ‘how to’ on baiting and reeling in your crush. I'm sure when that will be, but this organic giddiness can’t last that long, right?

Originally posted for Daily Vogue on April 17, 2010 at http://thevoguecity.com/my-crush

Emma Dinzebach

“Then he asked if we could still be friendly. So I think we are set to have a drink either before he leaves for his business trip or when he gets back,” explained my friend on the phone last night. She just pseudo broke up with her pseudo boyfriend of a few months. The past few days she has been sad over the "break up," but mainly because she is sick of tedious break-up talks. Another round of break-up talks means she soon has to re-emerge on the big bad city dating market...but not before the awkward post-break up follow-up talk.

Because they had so many mutual friends, a conversation was in order.I’ve had these conversations on numerous occasions, usually for the guy’s benefit as I normally could care less if I see you with your new girlfriend. If I were meant to be your girlfriend, I would be. Some people, my aforementioned friend included, think that because they have mutual friends they have to be friends. Plans to meet for drinks and friendly back-and-forth emails ensue.

So this is the thing, if these are empty promises intended to lighten the break-up blow, then fine. But if you actually intend to play along,to have drinks and ignore the fact that last time you did this you went home and romped, then you have entirely too much time on your hands and are borderline self-destructive. Remember how you wanted to tone your arms, read Man In Full, organize the shoes in your oven, learn to use your oven, go to yoga, catch up with your college bio lab partner? Well you are not going to accomplish any of those things going to have drinks with someone who doesn’t want to be your boyfriend.

Let me repeat that: You accomplish nothing, nada, zilch spending time with someone who doesn’t want to be with you and vice versa. For all of the dating mistakes I make, I don’t do the “let’s be friends” thing unless there was a solid friendly foundation before said “relationship.” I, like you, have plenty of friends thankyouverymuch. Friends enrich our souls,make us laugh, push us to grow and mine bring pints frozen yogurt rather than ice cream because they know that when I feel better, I won’t want to be fat. Until you say “I Do,” friends are more important than dudes you date. And even after “I Do,” you are the most important priority in your life and making sure that you are growing to your personal potential comes before all the rest. Having drinks with some lame ex whatever-he-was is counterproductive to this growth.

By all means, be friendly, but kindly decline set plans. “Oh I would love to but I can’t Tuesday, I have plans.” Because you do have plans…with your yoga mat. You are strong enough to make choices that fuel your fire and allow you to burn brightly. You are smart enough to start making those choices now.

Originally posted for Daily Vogue on April 11, 2010 at http://thevoguecity.com/nothing-else-to-say

Emma Dinzebach

My flight to Marrakech arrived a few hours before Lowe's, so I waited patiently at customs (desk #19, and yes, I thought that was a sign) for my turn. When I got to the window, the customs woman inquired into my work. "Um, English?" I asked so I could properly answer her questions.

"This is my English," she said. Oh. Oops.

At the baggage claim, I tried to stalk this hot guy on my plane, but then I saw him pick his nose, look at it and flick it somewhere, so I quickly got my bag and headed out to get cash and be on my way. Well, I had a few problems at the ATM and started to sweat. It kept giving me this message that meant it wasn't working and I sat by and observed thirteen people take out money before I finally figured out what I was doing wrong and withdrew some Moroccan dirhams. I walked outside to the taxi stand eager to get to my room and shower. The taxi stand director guy pointed towards my taxi, the next in line. Why the fuck is this guy pulling up so fucking slowly? I wondered. I lifted my sunglasses and squinted to see the taxi driver, but the driver's seat was empty. Confused I searched for someone else to confirm this taxi was indeed driving itself, but the other people around me were unaffected. Upon closer inspection I realized there was a taxi driver, he was pushing the taxi from behind.

"He's pushing his taxi? I'm not taking that taxi. Different taxi," I said to the taxi organizer man.

"No it's fine. He just push a little bit." I'm not Fred Flinstoning it to Marrakech in this old ass taxi, I thought. Then I remembered there are two size taxis. Said pushed taxi was Grande. I really only needed Petite.

"Je voudrais une petite taxi s'il vous plait," I said in my horrible French, and he motioned Fred Flinstone along until a smaller taxi approached. I showed him the address to our riad, and stared at the paper squinting and confused. This guy has no clue where it is, I thought. Great. He drove up to this taxi congregate and got out to ask another driver. The driver knocked on my window and I rolled it down and showed him the address. He called the riad with his phone and after a few minutes,  handed me the phone. The man on the other end informed me that they did not have a reservation under my name and they were completely booked. I repeated our reservation name and had him double check. Again, no dice. No reservation. My heart started to race. I did not want to sit in the airport and wait for Lowe, and I had no way to communicate with her a change of plans. "Well what should I do?" I asked.

"Just come here and we will figure it out," he said kindly. I thanked him and hung up. From here, I am going to write exactly what I wrote in my journal while seated at a little table in the riad.

I'm writing now so it looks like I have something to do. I'm exhausted and very overwhelmed by this situation with our riad. First, I had to take the most frightening taxi ride of my life where I physically leaned over and locked all of the doors. There are no traffic signals at all whatsoever. Sometimes there is a police officer directing the cars and motor bikes, but usually not. The people do not wear helmets and cram too many people on these unsafe bikes and in their cars. I literally saw a teeny tiny car with eight people inside - even little children. I haven't eaten anything all day but pain chocolate and desperately need to change my tampon. The taxi driver, who had the jankiest, grossest snaggle tooth that was rotting and decaying and honestly sickening, dropped me off on a street full of men and passed me to this 17 year old boy. "Am I going to be taken?" I said, panicked. "Because I promised my mom I would not be taken!" Everyone circled around me stared at me wide-eyed. My iPhone dropped to the ground, my dirhams spilled on the taxi seat. My god I am a bulls eye for theft, I thought and quickly picked it up off the ground. The money I had to give the taxi fell to the seat, and I stared at it for minute.

This is an adventure. This is what you live your life for. People are generally good. You are a humanist. You believe this, I reminded myself. I stared at the guy I was being passed off to and looking him in the eye said, "Do you know where to go?"

"Yes, I take you," he said ignoring the fact that I just said I did not want to be taken. As quickly as I could, I measured my body compass. On a scale from -10 to 10, how do you feel about this guy, Emma? I asked myself. Three was the first number that came to mind. It was hard to read because I was shaken and nervous by the amount of dirty men surrounding me, motor bikes whizzing by, donkeys on the roadside and all around smell of diesel gas and urine. If I subtracted those I might even be at a 7. If I felt a 7 about a pair of shoes, I would buy them. I picked up the money and turned towards my guide. "Parlez-vous français?" he asked. "No, pas seulement en anglais," I replied cursing myself for spending so much time with my French boyfriend and not learning French. "England?" he asked, taking my bag and starting our walk. "No U.S.A.," I said.

We stopped at this narrow, long dark passage way. A few cats meowed and there were some pools I'm pretty sure were pee. I stood frozen like a dear in headlights. "Is here," he said turning to walk down. "This is it?!" I asked. "I don't think this is it? This can't be it. Is this a good neighborhood?" I started to ramble. He pointed up to the street sign above the entrance. Sure enough, this was it. We arrived at the end and there was a large door. He let go of my bag and says, "It's here. We are here." I grabbed his arm. "Don't leave me until they open the door!" I said in the single most panicked voice I have ever heard. It didn't even sound like me. A woman opened the door and I stepped inside. I realized I need to tip my guardian, but all of my monies were mixed together and change falling everywhere. I knew the exchange rate, but it was all happening so fast and you know I'm bad at mental math. Eventually, I just handed him a handful of Euros, dirhams, USD - whatever I had. The owner appeared in a small doorway and said, "Did you phone?"

"Yes," I said looking at him with hopeful eyes.

"I'm sorry we don't have your reservation and we are all booked." Tears welled in my eyes about to spill over. I am not going to cry. Lowe would definitely not cry, I tell myself. I'm fine. This is not a cry situation. I swallowed. "Come in. Come in," he said. "We will speak in ten minutes." I stepped through the little doorway into this beautiful courtyard. It was breezy and there was a pool in the center. It was dusk someone was lighting candles lit all around. He lead me to a corner next to the pool and I sat on this nice cushioned bench. Someone brought me tea and some cookies. When I had a little tea and about 25 cigarettes, he came back over and said "It would be my pleasure to have you, but we are booked." He asked for my original reservation. I pulled up the email, and he said he will call the original riad. He is calling them now.

And it turned out wonderfully. We were supposed to be booked at a different riad with the same name. The manager, a short guy named Aziz, felt so badly for fudging up our reservation that he gave us the honeymoon suite and offered to pick up Lowe from the airport. He even took me on what I'm pretty sure he considered a date and we shared a traditional Moroccan meal. Everyone he knew kept coming up to us, and he spoke with each of them for at least five full minutes without introducing me or acknowledging I was there. At first I introduced myself, but after like the 4th guy, I thought Fuck it. Who cares. I'm never going to see these people again. He stared at me through the flickering candlelight, I thought He totally thinks we are on a date and is telling all of his friends this. When it was time for our dessert, he led us to a nicer table in this cushioned corner where we had to sit next to each other. "Pretty girl," he said. "Pretty girl. Happy girl." Oh great. When we finished our dinner, we walked to the front. I stood at the top of the stairs waiting for him as he conversed again with his friends. It didn't even occur to me to pull my wallet. I mean, he invited me to his "friend's restaurant." Talked over half of our dinner to his friends and even answered his phone twice. Bascially, he was just a rude date. After five more minutes I'm thought, Fucking hell what is taking this dude so long. We have to go pick up Lowe. They just like to take their sweet ass time here. His friends looked at me, and it suddenly dawned on me that I should offer to pay. I walked over and said, "How much is it? Do you want me to give some money?"

"You can just give that and we will be even," he said pointing to my phone. I felt uncomfortable. "I only have this," I said pulling out 200 dirham - about 20 euros.

"That's perfect!" he said and snatched it out of my hand and gave it to the guy. "We go pick up your friend!" Did I just pay for this guy's dinner? Is he serious that I just had to pay for his dinner. He invited me to his friend's restaurant and made me pay. For real? Sure it's not a lot to me but it's an expensive restaurant to them. Not only did I play along with his weird dateness, answered his fifty million iPhone questions and laughed even when his jokes were clearly lost in translation, now I have to pay. I mean, seriously?

This is almost the end, I promise. So we get into his car, and for some reason even though there is plenty of room on the driver's side and the driver's side door is not broken, he gets in on the passenger side and scoots over to the driver's seat, and he puts on this romantic Spanish guitar music and reaches over and touches my face and says, "Pretty girl. Happy girl. Laughing girl." OH MY GOD? Did he just touch my face? My face? GA-ROSS. Gross. Gross. Gross. I pulled out my hand sanitizer and sanitized my hands then nonchalantly wiped some on the point of contact. Do you know how dirty this guys hands were? He did not wash them before dinner, then touched his keys, his car, this gross railing, his steering wheel, his CD changer and then touched my skin. Sick. I looked down at my phone. My service was finally working. I sent a Lowe a text.

Picking you up from the airport. Stay there. FYI I have a Moroccan stalker. 

Walking into the airport he tried to put his arm around me, and I pretended something was on my shoe and bent down to brush it off. The airport looked different at eleven o'clock at night. There were cats climbing into the now desolate money changing windows, and Aziz was running around the airport pointing me out to all of his friends. There were some Spanish hippies being all hippified in one corner and some ritzy couple with three dogs in Louis Vuitton dog carries searching frantically for their driver. But all of that faded into the background when Lowe walked out of customs. The world was right again. "I can't wait for you see our honeymoon suite!" I said kissing her cheek and leading her towards the ATM. "Oh, you have to press a certain button if you want the money to come out."

Emma Dinzebach

Recall the time I said I could make that hot med student’s hips happy. Well, then I never saw him again. For a moment I thought to stalk him. Hey, it worked for my mother, but then I was literally so busy I forgot to stalk him and then forgot about the whole situation all together. Until last week when I met another med student whom I grilled relentlessly about med student happy hips. Number two did not know happy hips and appeared displeased that I wasn’t interested in him. His name was Scott. I also never saw Scott again.

So imagine my surprise when, while arranging the Sharpie’s at the name tag table for a runner’s design meeting last week, the nearly-forgotten med student in pursuit of happy hips appeared beside me. I buried my excitement and acted like he was just any ‘ol human, neatly wrote his name tag, and went about my table arranging business. When we were seated waiting for latecomers, my friend said, “And do you know blah, blah, blah?” He started to nod his head before I had time to decide whether or not I was going to admit to remembering him. “Yeah,” I said. He reminded me that when we met, he was in with his rents. I said, “Med school, right?” Then I paused an appropriate amount of time so to pretend I was thinking then said, “Orthopedics?”

“You have such a good memory Emma!” said my friend after I threw out a few detailed highlights about our conversation coolly pretending I hadn’t recounted it a million times to twenty different girlfriends.

“For guys. I have a really good memory for guys,” I said looking him in the eye for just a second past comfortable. He shifted in his seat.

During the meeting, happy hips offered helpful suggestions and brought garments he frequently worked out in to show the designer. The designer was very interested in his input. I kind of wanted to lick his tricep muscle. The meeting lasted much longer than I anticipated and being my second design meeting of the day, my brain grew increasingly weary and I became anxious to get out of there. When we concluded, I started to clean up. I wanted to talk more with happy hips guy but was too tired to flirt it out and had to be up super early. My bed beckoned. He left before I could say goodbye.

Half disgruntled, half exhausted, I walked home wondering when I got stretched so thin I had no energy left to flirt. I thought to myself, How did this happen? Too lazy to stalk? Too tired to even flirt, which I am best in the world at? I was becoming one of those girls I detested. I called my friend for reinforcement. “Is it okay if I ask so and so for his email and email him?” I asked.

“Dude, of course. If I stole a guys number off of a pair of pants he was having hemmed, which I did, then of course you can email him.”

“Right,” I said. “If you stole a guys number off of a pair of pants a dude was having hemmed, I can totally email him.”

“Affirmative,” she said. So because my normal tactics have fallen wayside to my crazy schedule, I am going to be the aggressor and email him. I fear he's a bit shy, so he will probably think I'm crazy. I'm not. I'm just a lazy stalker.

Originally posted for Daily Vogue on March 20, 2010 at http://thevoguecity.com/lazy-stalking
Emma Dinzebach

"You're so fickle," said my mom after I laid out my latest epiphany. Lying in bed the previous night, I had a recurring thought, I will focus better if I phase out all of the men in life. See I have a lot on my plate. Not more than any one person can handle, but as much as I can handle and still give 110%... but (and there is a but) I also love dudes. I love how they can't touch their toes and need help picking out clothes. I love how they get kind of nervous when overtly flattered, the look on their face when they are trying to figure out whether or not you like them, their pick-up lines, their forearms, their dance moves... well some of their dance moves. I heart them, and I also need a break. I need space. (See also: Eye. On. Prize.)

The only way I do something is if I go around telling everyone I'm doing it. (Um, have you met me?) So if my goal is to do a triathlon, I go around telling everyone I'm training for a triathlon before I even have a bike. Once verbalized, my follow through rate is about 40%. For the record, I verbalize way more than an unassisted human being can actually accomplish.  So if my current goal is to focus my mental efforts on my masterpirce, the first step to success is broadcasting it to the world. Guys do this all the time btw - focus their mental efforts elsewhere, that is - they just don't think as much about it. They think, I'm too busy for a girlfriend. Then leave you wondering why they never called. But girls mull over it in bed at night because it's contrary to how we were raised and what society expects of us. It takes a lot more mental energy to battle the social pressure of being a voluntarily single female than to just keep dating. (On a sidenote, I recently told a friend I wanted a guy to hook up with who wasn't going to try to make me his girlfriend. And she said, "Oh those are so hard to come by." Because they ARE so hard to come by! The older we get, the needier guys become.)

Now, in the midst of removing myself from guys and seeking an truly beneficial "friend," I have to dodge set-ups. "Oh, I have the best guy to set you up with!" a woman in my store shrieked yesterday when I told her that I wasn't dating anyone "special." (Sorry to some of you reading this. You are special - just not to me. Not right now.)

"Um, that's really nice of you, but I'm not dating."

"What do you mean you're not dating?"

"I'm just not dating right now. I have too much going on. I can't concentrate on psychologically destroying the sixty-six plus people I've already dated if I'm busy dissecting someone in the flesh. It's too draining."

"Oh, but it's just one date?! He's has a beautiful penthouse apartment overlooking the river." (They always try to rope me in with apartments and fancy job titles.)

"If he is that great, I have a friend he might be interested in..." (I try to help my friends.)

"Oh, but I think he would like you." (But it never works.)

"He would. Unfortunately, I'm not dating."

There are several variations of this conversation. So and so wants me to go out with their son, coworker, neighbor, family friend, etc.  I get it. I'm really outgoing and give great compliments and have a desirable ass. In the beginning, they love me. I'm super entertaining...until you realize that yes I actually always have this many thoughts. Can you live constantly showered in my detailed observations, opinions and emotions? Not unless you're my husband. (See also: survival of the fittest.) But dudes don't see this at first. They see only the bright and shiny toy they want to touch and play with. Plus, I'll probably diss (yes diss) you on the internet. That comes with the territory. If you date a banker, he's likely to check his Blackberry mid- ex every now and again. If you date a writer, you will be exposed on the world wide web here and there.

"As simple as that, as simple as that. As simple as that for your simple ass." -Kid Cudi

Hm, I forgot what the point is... oh, yeah. So I'm fickle because one day I cannot stop talking about XYZ and how adorable he is and the next day I'm swearing off dating. And it's hard for someone so flirty like me to swear off dating. Hell, this week, I'll probably go on a date. Because in addition to being fickle, I'm a hypocrite. And I don't even think that's a bad thing. Satire was born from hypocrisy. And tyranny! Tyranny was born from hypocrisy! Without tyranny, we could have never enjoyed twenty hours of Henry Cavill in thigh high boots in the Tudors. Because who knew dudes also look amazing in thigh high boots?

And now I must tend to my masterpiece. To hypocrisy: Nastravi!

Emma Dinzebach

Ode to our nation's capital. Home to...um, Congress, Wale... Hm, this is a harder line than I thought. Oh, POTUS, FLOTUS and the little ones. And Air Force One! And some of our nation's brightest young third graders who contrived the funniest little list of "Types of Bitches." That's right, bitches. There are 90 types. And 90 makes for a long list people. I have trouble naming 90 friends, 90 designers, 90 foods I like, 90 ways I love Mia; and those things are important. So I don't know how these youngsters came up with 90 bitches. But they did.

Coincidently, the first bitch category I fall into is my favorite number! 19! (You should really know that by now people.) I also have a tendency to be 26-29 - usually at the same time. Sometimes, like right now for instance, I'm a 37. My best friend is also a 19, which is why we talk on the phone like ten times a day. She's been known to be a 69 on occasion. My brother is a 40, and his girlfriend is a 25. Omg I know so many number 12 bitches! I don't get number 62. And if you know a 75, send 'em my way. Maybe I should use this to categorize my dates.

I don't want to overload your short term memory, again, I'm 19, 26-29, and once in a while a 37. And I'm not lying.

http://andiamnotlying.com/2010/types-of-bitches/

The other weekend I accidentally kissed my friend. Well, to be clear, he kissed me- a bold move that I didn't see coming what with his sassy, unfettered charm that rivals John Wilkes. In his tow you're sure to find a flock of Levi 511-fiending women; and I thought said female trail rendered me safe from the wrath of his lusty stronghold. But hmf, not so much. Always one to admit my often erroneous thoughts, I was admittedly wrong here on two accounts: (1) I erroneously thought he would be able to resist restrain himself if for no other reason than that he hates snarky publicity. (Don't worry, I'm not ruining a friendship here. He offered up his John Hancock the second he pressed his sexy lips to mine.) and (2) I erroneously imagined two attractive, unattached, straight people of the opposite sex could be just friends. Months of opportunity lost; what changed his mind? Why this time? Maybe it was my magic headband. Maybe it was his lucky Levis 511s. Last night the DJ did not save my life. I blame it on the dancefloor. I blame it on the Goose. Or maybe I'm just genetically wired for men like a chubby kid in a candy store. And if the pied piper wears ice skates, then I'm utterly beyond. 

I always have this issue with guy friends - probably every girl does. You accidentally kiss and have to have a "talk" about it, which I'm obviously not a fan of otherwise it's awkward. But, and here in lies el problemo, it's really not an emotional issue for me. I can kiss you and move on. The next week you can fall in love. Hell, I will happily throw you an engagement party when you choose to tie the knot. Maybe I'm an anomaly among women, but I'll be totally, completely, fully, utterly, undoubtedly fine. (And many of my guy friends - you know who you are - can attest to this.) Not only am I fine, but you can call me and (if I answer) I'll listen to your relationship problems. I'll go to charity media events with your girlfriend. I'll have a beer with you and your work friends. Or you'll have a beer. I'll have champagne, thank you. Even with true ex-boyfriends - they are exes for a reason; and I'm happy if they find someone who they really like...just as long as I'm prettier and smarter. Duh. That's called self-esteem, people. I didn't go through years of training to be a jealous friend, a jealous ex or a jealous anything. I have heaps of srsly sticky flaws, but jealousy is not one of them.

Unfortunately, most human beings lack the self-esteem (however laboriously earned) I possess. So what happens next weekend when we go out? I already love him to death or we wouldn't be friends. I already think he's super handsome and smart and funny and has a nice ass or again, we wouldn't be friends. But I'm not his girlfriend and you can bet your vintage crocodile Birkin, that my attention will be diverted. Skates or no skates. Levis or no Levis. Something will lure me... or it won't and I'll totally act like your girlfriend, leaving a trail of crumpled, mixed messages. And for that I apologize because when it comes to the opposite sex, I'm a bit like a dude. After dealing with them for so long, some dude-ness was bound to get caught in my frills. Coupled with being city jaded, I'm dangerously close to a dating schizophrenia diagnosis.

But I'm not that far gone. I'm not that jaded by New York's dating anxieties. I know apathy does not make a good story, a fun personality or an interesting life. My awkward friend/foe kissing episodes and increasingly impressive ability to breakdown every and any male-centric situation is a gift that I will continue to use even after the cosmos align. Who says they have to be awkward? Embrace the unknown!

So to all of the friends I have kissed, will kiss, and should have kissed before we lost touch: Exhale. Kissing, despite whatever popular belief wants us to think, is a first step on the road to possibility. It sustains our ability to believe in love - in any capacity. (I love Mia and I kiss her all the time!) Embrace the kiss and you will be able to feel as comfortable around me as I feel around you. 

I have a whole list of dating hates that aren’t necessarily dealbreakers but traits I utterly loathe. For the sake of time, space and verbosity, they're in concise list form. Drum roll please:

The Loathe List:

1) Exclamation marks - at all, but especially in excess. The worst is when you think a guy is cool. You like him and are kind of in that intimidated awe stage, which wears out really quickly but is so good while it lasts. Then you follow him on Twitter or friend him on Facebook and like a bloody train wreck hundreds of exclamation marks stare back at you. And you ask yourself, “Is someone truly cool ever that openly enthused?” Consider some ultra cool men - Clint Eastwood, James Dean, A-Trak, Kid Rock, George Clooney. Would they use exclamation marks? Heavens no...and neither should a dude you date.

2) Running shoes with jeans. Running and cross training shoes are for athletics, not Sunday brunch. Do not wear them with denim unless you prefer your footwear coated in vomit because that combination makes. people. gag.

3) Ill-fitting underwear. You know that dude with the running shoes and jeans? Well, you can bet your Balenciaga that when he takes off those jeans it’s far from Beckham for Armani. (See also: Jamie Dornan for Calvin Klein.) What you will find are really loose, ill-fitted, wrinkled, rumpled, and faded boxers from Banana Republic circa 2002 decorated with little monkeys or firetrucks. Need I say more? And you wonder why I date Eurotrash.

4) Discussing dollars. My mom says I have an aversion to any money discussion, but really, I just don’t want to know your business. It’s unattractive. I don’t want to know that buying a boat made you have to reel in the spending for the next two months; and newsflash, I can figure that out on my own. Your bills, bank statements, saving method, financing, yadda, yadda, yadda are not my business unless we aim to merge our lives in which case I need to know everything.

5) When they call me baby. If you are not my boyfriend, then I am not your baby. Each time you call me “baby” a part of me dies inside.

Originally written for The Daily Vogue: http://thevoguecity.com/dont-call-me-baby

Emma Dinzebach